Business
by RainKrystal
Summary: "The business of America is business." -Calvin Coolidge A look at the Prohibition Era through the eyes of America and some of his States.


**Diclaimer: **I don't own Hetalia. If I did, I'd be very rich indeed. The OCs and story are mine though. The history belongs to itself.  
******Rating/Warning(s):** T for a healthy amount of swearing and copious amounts of OCs.  
******Genre:** So classifying this style is a little tough. It's really a blend, so I just called it General. But, to be more mind-breakingly specific, it would be family, friendship, hurt/comfort, drama, crime. Let's just stick with general, then.  
**Note: **At 22,188 words, this is the longest single thing I've ever written, and I'm happy with it. I tried put it up here about a month or so ago, but the site decided to crap out on me in a major way. Hopefully, this is going to work this time, so here's hoping!  
**Fun drinking game:** Take a shot for each time I use the word "business." Go on. You'll have alcohol poisoning when this is over. That's my biggest regret.  
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"The business of America is business."

-Calvin Coolidge

_Sunset, January 16th, 1920_

Louisiana smiles as the ships come into the harbor, lit by the afternoon sun. They come into the ports of New Orleans bringing imports, things she can't for herself, things that her people need. They arrive laden with the hard-earned trade, and leave with her own goods, things her people made with their bare hands, or goods from all over the United States, things to be sold in global markets for profit. Goods, Louisiana understands. The giving and receiving that never changes no matter what language she happens to be speaking today, that is her life's blood and it is trade that Louisiana comprehends best. It doesn't matter how you say "money," or what color your skin is, as long as your credit is good, and your cash is real. Louisiana has learned a lot of things in her lifetime, and one of the first things she was taught by France was that people love beautiful things.

And what she learned from France later on in her childhood was no less important; people are willing to pay for beautiful things, or else just things that they need, or want. She also learned the hard way that there is a price for everything, and for everyone. Louisiana learned that there existed a price for which France would not only sell the young girl, who he treated like a daughter, but several other States and Territories that had not yet developed their own Representations. Everyone, it seems, can be bought for the right price, including a "father." But Louisiana doesn't begrudge France his decision; after all, it's not as if he abandoned her completely. While she was growing, he still made efforts to be there for her, and Louisiana was already practically independent by the time she was given over to America's care. And America wasn't a truly horrible parent figure, just forgetful. Louisiana can see that both of her "parents" tried in their own way to make things better for her. France wanted her to have a good life, to live somewhere that she would have the attention she needs, the kind that he could not give her, having obligations elsewhere in the world.

But after being burned once, Louisiana had made a point of it to learn about trade. She learned how to make it work to her advantage, to make sure she was never hurt so roughly again. Throughout the years, trade has always been essential in Louisiana's eyes. The hot commodity changes with the season and the era, coming and going with the rise and fall of industry and consumer interest. Louisiana may not know the exact numbers concerning what she does the way that New York does, as she does not care for stocks and bonds, but Louisiana does know the underlying driving forces and principles of the marketplace. She understands the economics that keep her and her kind healthy because she understands people. She knows what makes the lifeblood of States and Empires alike flow; the love of beautiful things, and the need for what one can't have.

And these days, the thing that consumers can't have is liquor. When America had decided to go sober, he had really committed to the idea, which would have been fine, had he not also chosen to enforce that Prohibition on everyone in the country. Louisiana had cringed, seeing the downfall of a wonderful trade, one that produced beautiful things that could also be consumed. Wine, hard liquors, and even common beer all have this certain elegance about them, to her economic mind. Louisiana not only appreciates the wines for their rich tastes, but for the fact that even the worst of the swill beers can be sold to the truly desperate. Elegant, simple, ruthless. And now, Louisiana has seen how this seemingly unfortunate situation can work to her advantage. The market is ripe. People want beautiful things that they cannot have, and they are truly desperate. There's a lot of money to be made in spirits right now, as long as you're willing to bend a few laws, and take a sledgehammer to a few others.

Louisiana smiles as the ships filled with imported spirits come into her harbor, waiting to be unloaded by shady characters. The harbor will soon be filled with smugglers, ready to take and distribute the liquors throughout the entire city of New Orleans, then move on to the rest of Louisiana's lands, before finally they will be spread to the rest of the States by way of the rivers and roads that connect them. Louisiana takes a luxurious sip of the vintage, smuggled, and highly expensive wine in her hand from her vantage point atop a nearby building, watching the boats come in, the sun coloring everything with an amber light the color of fine brandy. She smiles to herself, savoring the wine for its textures and flavors. Business is good, and when the profits come in, they are certain to be truly delectable.

_Evening, August 3rd, 1921_

Michigan smiles as he drives down the back country road at dusk, whistling happily to himself. So the Great War is over today, officially, now that Germany has paid his first Reparation Fee. This, of course, makes absolutely no sense, since Michigan is pretty sure that he had climbed out of his tank for what he hopes was the last time around three years ago. The fighting has been over since 1918 with the Armistice, and to declare it over now seems more than just a little bit silly. Still, the war is "over" now. Maybe he should be rejoicing? Michigan isn't sure. He already did plenty of partying three years ago when the war _really_ ended, since he remembers getting completely smashed with Texas, Indiana and South Carolina and a bunch of the others. Other than that, though, Michigan doesn't remember much, since his memory of that night blacks out around the time someone handed him his eighth beer. The Wolverine State sighs contentedly, remembering the little patches of memory he has from that night. Good times.

Speaking of wild parties, there are probably plenty of other people who are on their way to partying tonight, and Michigan owes it to them to help make their celebrations merry, and alcoholic. Louisiana passed him this shipment, and Michigan is sure he makes a good smuggler, since he knows the backroads of his own lands like the back of his hand, only better, since he actually has a very fuzzy view of the back of his hand in the dim light. Part of being a State means always knowing where you are when you're on "home ground" so to speak, and Michigan enjoys that particular skill just a little more fully than he thinks others do. Whereas most of the other States never think much of not getting lost, Michigan can feel when he leaves his own borders because he immediately loses his innate sense of direction. He still knows which way is north, because he can read the sun, but other than that, he's lost.

Well, that's not really "lost," per se, since it's a lot better than most humans can do these days. Still, it's not like what he has on his home ground, things like always just instinctively knowing which turn he needs to take to get to the corner store from Main Street in a town he's never set foot in before. It's nice, he thinks. It also lets him evade people like Ohio, who has made it her mission to hunt the smuggler down. As long as she's chasing him, and not Nebraska. It's funny, Ohio calls herself the Queen of the Skies, but she has no idea that another Midwestern aviator is using what she has called her domain in order to subvert her. Nebraska is running a smuggling operation via plane, and Ohio has _no idea_! It's almost too awesome to be real.

Speaking of ridiculous, Michigan peers out through the windshield and spots the telltale sign that Ohio is waiting for him; her taillights are still on. Michigan chuckles, shaking his head at the slightly inept elder State. Ohio can operate a bomber plane with so much finesse that you'd swear it was impossible how precisely and delicately she dropped her charges, but she can't turn her taillights off in a modern automobile. This last year or so has really seen Ohio taking a dip in control. She might not have fully realized it yet, but the so-called Queen has already lost her grip on the Midwest. Leaning completely out of the window, Michigan turns around to wave at Ohio, and can practically feel the air crackle from the glare she is undoubtedly shooting at him. If looks could kill, Michigan would be dead over a thousand times from the amount of glares he's received from the Buckeye State. But they don't and he's not, so Michigan just sticks his head back in the car and guns the motor hard, like his foot was made of lead, a smile that in most people would denote insanity stamped hugely on his face.

Michigan cracks his knuckles around the steering wheel, and gears up for another night chase. Even in the dark of the cloudy night, Michigan has home field advantage. He knows where he is, and how to get where he wants to be, even in the dark. He'd spare the time to run circles around Ohio before leaving her in the dust usually, but, hey, the war ended. Some people are going to want a drink or seven, and Michigan is more than happy to oblige them. Heck, he's even been thinking about inviting the rest of the Midwest -minus one irritating busybody- to a little shindig, to celebrate the war being over and all. Sounds like it could be a blast.

Tires squealing, Michigan zips ahead past Ohio's hiding spot in some brush, kicking up pebbles in a spray behind his tires. Ohio immediately pulls out of park to try and keep up with him, her engine roaring in before it slows down out of its lurch to keep time with Michigan's, the two engines the only sounds in the otherwise quiet night in Michigan's countryside. The older State has been trying to catch Michigan all year once she found out he was a smuggler.

There's not much she can do to him even if she by some small miracle catches him, really. Even if she told the family that Michigan was a smuggler, nothing would happen. He can't go to jail, since he doesn't officially exist. In fact, the worst that could happen would be that America would get mad, and do something drastic. But Michigan doesn't see much chance of that happening, since he's pretty sure that America doesn't care enough about Ohio's whining anymore to get mad. He's probably so used to Ohio yelling about something Michigan has supposedly done, that the Nation has started ignoring her claims now. Michigan smiles, knowing that Ohio has trapped herself in the socially lethal position of the boy who cried wolf. Michigan never liked that story, much, anyway, but at least it's working in his favor now, so he's not anywhere close to complaining, no sir.

Ohio gets closer to Michigan, ramming his rear bumper with the front end of her car, causing the vehicle to jolt and shudder from the small collision. Michigan's grin gets wider, as he figures that now is as good a time as any to put his plan into action. Shifting hard, Michigan pulls to one side of Ohio, and flashes a cheeky grin at the lurid older State, doing his best not to wither under her glare. Waving goodbye happily, Michigan hits the brake, hard. The tires squeal in the night, sending up another spray of pebbles and dirt as the car comes to a stop.

Up ahead, Ohio's confusion telegraphs itself through the movements of her vehicle, as she stalks, pulling to a jerky halt, alternating between hitting the brake letting it go, not sure what to do in the face of Michigan's new tactic. While she slows, Michigan's grin gets so wide it almost hurts as he guns the engine hard, racing forward. While Ohio tries to recover, Michigan spins a sharp turn into the woods, knowing he's the only one who could follow the trail he just _knows_ is there. He'll have to turn around tomorrow to pick up his next shipment from Louisiana, and he also has to meet someone in Detroit in three days, since it seems whoever they are, they need a good smuggler.

As Michigan slows down, his mind begins to relax a little bit, confident that he's lost his law-abiding rival. Actually, all this racing around lately has given him a wonderful idea, one that he wants to tell Florida about later, see what she does with it. The gang would probably like the idea, too, South Carolina especially seems like he'd get a real kick out of it. He supposes that he'll pitch the idea over drinks, maybe at South Carolina's new establishment? Maybe, just maybe, after all of this is over, Michigan might have invented a brand new business to go into.

_Midnight, August 9th, 1922_

New Jersey smiles as she looks out over Atlantic City from her penthouse in the Chalfonte Hotel, eight floors above the Boardwalk. She sits at the large desk from which she conducts her more civilized business practices, and watches the city move about below her in the glow of the streetlights. Even at this hour her heart is still alive, moving at a frantic pace, illicit deals taking place in the shadows beneath the Boardwalk. The desk New Jersey sits at is too large for her small stature, but New Jersey doesn't mind, as it makes her fell powerful, large, as if she's in charge. Which, of course, she is, but it doesn't hurt to be behind such a large thing if it impresses those whom New Jersey has a mind to impress. Or to intimidate, if the situation calls for such things.

She has changed her game to grapes, in the last two years. Or, more accurately, to the sort of grapes from which you make wines. New Jersey doesn't bother trying to grow any herself, except in her private garden in northern farmlands in her territory –which is really less of a garden, and more of a small farm– as she knows her soil isn't suited for grapes as well as it could be. That, and New Jersey knows absolutely nothing about wine. She personally prefers beer, considering wines to be a bit too stuck for her. She's had it before for the sake of appearances, but she doesn't go out of her way to find wine. So, her latest pet project has been the shipping and distilling of spirits, made from grapes she either imports, or smuggles. Smuggling is just a little bit easier, since usually people get suspicious when wine grapes start being bought up in large quantities during a time when the sale of wine is illegal. That, and it's just all together simpler to bribe the right officials to make sure that her front line cover businesses are never too thoroughly investigated than it is to actually pay taxes on her ill-gotten funding.

When Romano had come to her years ago with a fedora in his hand and a shady deal on his lips, New Jersey had taken it, wanting to seize the power he offered. New Jersey, who has never held real power before this, for even in America's early days she was too small, shadowed by Pennsylvania and then later by New York. The Garden State has always been the runner up in her life, always pushed to the side, and now she refuses to simply sit back and take it all the way Delaware does, who at least has the distinction of being First. Now, New Jersey is powerful, and knows in her river water blood that she has a tremendous hold over the other States and –to some extent– America from her place here in the shadows. This was the gift that Romano had given her, and the power he'd taught her to wield. Now that she must stand on her own, she will not fail him, or herself in these coming years. In the style of glorious Capitalism the way that Edison used to preach, New Jersey will take control, though in a more cutthroat way than the inventor would have endorsed. For the first time in her life, New Jersey feels _strong_.

New Jersey occasionally sends some of her "goods" to Romano as a way of saying thanks. _La Cosa Nostra_ might run strong in America's lands under New Jersey's direction, but she remembers not to forget who taught her how to run this operation in the first place. She's been running the show here for a good deal of time now on her own, but Prohibition… _This_ is how New Jersey is going to make a name for herself, and to establish the American Mafia as its own crime branch, _La Cosa Nostra_, Americana style. New Jersey laughs at the crime family in New York City. Masseria –the man who can dodge bullets, as they've started calling him after he survived a point-blank shooting– is able to run his operations well, despite the infighting, but the sad thing is that he settled in the city across the Hudson. They'd had no idea which area had been given the blessing by the Sicilians. Or, more accurately, _who_ had been sanctioned by _the_ Sicilian.

When New Jersey had introduced herself to the head of the family, Masseria had balked at three predictable things; that the head of the American Mafia is a woman, that personifications such as the States and the Nations exist, and that it would be New Jersey who was taught by Romano, or as they called his organization, the original Mafia. The Garden State doesn't mind that Masseria invariably chose to remain entrenched in New York City. It's close enough for her needs, and still far enough that she doesn't have to deal with him unless she really has to. As an added bonus, it also sends the more law-abiding members of the family like Vermont sniffing in all the wrong places, suspecting New York over The Garden State herself.

It's another thing she laughs about; all of New York's meager intelligence has been invested in Wall Street, he'd never have the mind for running something as delicate as this. He'd probably blow his cover immediately, or lose his cool when dealing with the even the lowest thugs on the totem pole. Romano knows it, too, and that's why he chose New Jersey over that blond idiot years ago when the first immigrants began to even speculate about their own organization.

So, New Jersey continues to pay tribute to Romano every now and again. It's both a way of saying thank you for the head start in this world, and because it's never a bad idea to pay tribute to your allies. In return, Romano helps her get her hands on many of the shipments of spirits coming from Europe, long before anyone else even knows that they exist. Getting a corner on your market is a wonderful way to start a monopoly. Romano has made it clear that New Jersey will be running this and all other operations she might launch in the future on her own from now on, and she's fine with that. His suggesting it before the Garden State could prevents the possible conflict that could have arisen when he was obligated to oppose her eventual bid for independence in order to save face. Things could have escalated, and apparently Romano knows it, much better than New Jersey did, apparently, to have suggested it before New Jersey could have put any long term plans into motion. In any case, this is her final test, sink or swim. The third State will either establish her hold on America's underworld in the coming years under Prohibition, or she will lose her backing from Romano and the Sicilians.

New Jersey smiles as she watches her people bustle around below on the Boardwalk, the sun setting behind her in the west, casting a red glow as the lanterns begin to turn on. New Jersey plans on cornering her market and creating her own monopoly on liquors, at least on the east coast. Visions of a map covered in shadows and an approving smile from Romano -the _capo di tutti capi_, boss of all bosses- fill her mind and New Jersey smiles maliciously, enjoying the feel of power and the tantalizing taste of what must surely be in her future, provided she plays her cards right. If she's able to pull this off, she'll have more power and reach than she'd ever dreamed of being able to grasp in her life. It's the thought that drew her first to this lifestyle, to be the strongest, to step out of the shadow of her neighbors and "siblings."

But in the mean time, The Garden State has been informed by rumor that some of the Southern States are starting something as well, so at least she knows where she can get her shipments from, if she is ever pressed for supplies. Maybe it will give her more customers for her ill-gotten "goods" as well, provided they don't ask too many questions. But first, New Jersey will look into the establishments being set up down south, maybe see if they're worth investing in. Maybe she'll also take a protection policy out on them. She thinks that her "siblings" further south shouldn't hold a grudge for the payments, and why would they? After all, it's just good business on her part.

_Sunrise, August 20th, 1923_

Tennessee smiles as she looks out from the back porch of the backwoods shed, the moonshine sitting in its stills behind her. The summer rises slowly in the early morning, and the room is still mostly lit by the electric light shining wanly over the stills. Despite how stupid some people assume she is, Tennessee knows better than to put a lantern in a room full of alcohol. She can't understand why people thinks she'd be that dumb, honestly. It just completely escapes her, though she guesses that it has to do with the stereotypes that surround her land. Tennessee might not be the sharpest tack in the toolbox, but she makes up for it with sheer dumb-headed tenacity, she thinks. After all, there's not much that a bucket full of elbow grease and a thick skull can't solve really. She's fixed a lot of her problems in the past by either making friends with them, or just staring at them until they went away. Tennessee smiles, remembering the first time Virginia showed her how to really harness the raw power of a good glare. It's a skill not easily acquired, and Tennessee had gotten the hang of it rather quickly.

Still, she reserves the glare for special occasions, especially since she thinks that it's not needed most of the time. Virginia can get so angry sometimes, Tennessee doesn't think it's all that worth it. Especially since the Commonwealth mostly gets mad at West Virginia. Virginia has been mad at her neighbor since his secession so many years ago and West Virginia has been mad at Virginia since before that. Tennessee does think that their anger is justified to some extent, since they both wound up hurting each other so badly, but the two of them are just making things ridiculous at this point. While they might feel vindicated by each other's actions, Tennessee just thinks that the neighbors both just need to get over themselves already and apologize. They're both waiting for apologies, but neither is willing to blink first, and both are stupidly stubborn.

Both of them are just so thick sometimes it makes Tennessee want to bang their iron-plated skulls together. The two of them are both waiting for an apology that they're never going to get and it's driving Tennessee completely insane. She always seems to make friends with the crazy ones, it seems. First these idiots, then South Carolina talking about a speakeasy- she wonders how his younger brother deals with him from time to time. It must drive North Carolina up the wall, how grandiose his brother can get sometimes. Tennessee just thinks she would end up punching the guy. She's learned better than to buy into his schemes, unless of course she can make a buck.

And that's precisely why she's so mad at New Jersey right now. Heck, Tennessee could have made enough money off of South Carolina's idiocy and his fledgling business to swim in it if she could have just been able to get her plan to organize the all homebrewers in her this and her neighboring counties. Unfortunately, New Jersey had liked this idea so much that she'd stolen it, and made sure that her Southerner "sister" would stay back and sit quietly while New Jersey sucked her dry.

One day the Garden State had just showed up straight out of nowhere in her smart little tailor-made suit, backed up by some Italian thugs with tommy guns and pinstriped clothes, demanding to taste some of Tennessee's products. New Jersey had revealed that she was the new Mafia. That was just terrific, a perfect little business deal, where Tennessee is now practically _losing_ money, now that she has to pay protection, and on top of that, now Tennessee can only sell directly to New Jersey, or to at the most any of New Jersey's frontline operations.

New Jersey has been paying Tennessee well enough for the goods, so she doesn't complain. Much. Out loud. That, and New Jersey's men very obviously carry weapons each time they arrive to pick up a shipment, as if they either don't know how to properly conceal a weapon or just don't care at all if she can see them. It's probably the latter, and Tennessee is also rather sure that New Jersey had been carrying her own weapon somewhere under her smart little suit, which was by the way completely inappropriate for a woman to be wearing.

Tennessee feels restricted all over again in a way she hasn't in a long, long time and it makes her itch. That deal with South Carolina would have been great, even more so now that he's gotten his own minor speakeasy launched, a little parlor under a church. While the establishment seems more than just a little bit blasphemous, South Carolina is a friend, and Tennessee wouldn't have minded selling to him. Tennessee wishes the pint-sized twit would come here unarmed and unprotected. Then she'd teach her Northern "sister" the real meaning of business etiquette.

But unfortunately, New Jersey is smart enough to know not to come back to Tennessee's summer home alone, it seems. The older State has only ever come to arrange things in person once, and then after that the Garden State had started sending various goons to make the transfers for her. She's obviously too much of a coward to come herself, and it makes the Southerner's blood boil that the elder State doesn't even have the decency to come on person to insult Tennessee's honor. She hates it, the entire arrangement and how the older State is practically robbing her blind. The Southern State could and should be selling to more honest businessmen, or as honest as any business man can be in this operation. Like South Carolina, and his establishment in Charleston. That would have been such a good business deal…

Tennessee sighs, feeling melancholy for a moment before she spots her trusty hunting rifle sitting on the porch beside her. A sharp, feral, grin slowly forms on her face as Tennessee formulates a plan. The next time that New Jersey's people show up, Tennessee is going to give them a piece of her mind, delivered in buckshot. Warning shots, of course. She intends to teach the damn hooligans a thing or two about courteous trading practices, not to kill the greedy bastards. Tennessee is going to sell to whomever she damn well wants to, and if New Jersey and her little Mafiosos want to keep working with her, they're going to have to learn some basic manners for the sake of business.

_Sunset, January 3rd, 1924_

South Carolina smiles as the first of his customers begin to fill the speakeasy as the sun sets outside and aboveground in Charleston. The smile is sincere but not open, large but not so large as to intimidate, and sharp but not pointy. It is a politician's smile something South Carolina learned well in the last era, when things were still in turmoil, and he needed to reestablish his footing in the family's politics. You can get a lot for a song if you've got the right kind of smile to back it up. South Carolina knows this, and he exploits it, making him an effective speaker and a good host. It served him well during Reconstruction, and now it's serving him well as he sells his wares to the upper class members of the Charleston society.

South Carolina prides himself in only selling to the upper class. The inferior establishments that he knows Illinois is running are low brow, serving anyone who can pay. Of course, South Carolina does the same, but his prices are higher, and only those in the know are able to even arrive. One must be vouched for by another customer in order to come to South Carolina's establishment, otherwise access is forbidden. No known snitches allowed, of course, and only those with the top credit can get in. It's why South Carolina walks the floor of the underground longue in the hours of operation, long after dark, when the high society of Charleston finds that they need some drinks. It helps him sell his wares, since if people feel welcomed, they buy more, drink more, and just all around spend more, especially now that South Carolina has started selling Lucky Strikes behind the bar. It all works in his favor.

The Palmetto State gets his shipments now from Tennessee, having happily accepted her surprising offer of a business venture. He'd thought for sure that she had been coerced into selling to New York, but it turns out he was wrong, in the end. It was New Jersey, oddly enough. South Carolina can't claim to be surprised, really. He's always thought that the Garden State was corrupt and unsavory, and this turn of events only proves things. Michigan has been working for a smuggling operation for the last few years, and South Carolina wonders if he could possibly get into business with them, and get a larger source of goods to sell, no offense to Tennessee and her wonderfully accommodating prices that she says she only gives to friends. Maybe he can just ask his brother?

Those little whirligig planes of North Dakota's have to be good for _something_ other than fighting and transport. They're not even that good at the latter, really. Flight seems rather useless to South Carolina's way of thinking. It's hard to profit from when not at war, and therefore it's useless, right? In any case that's a mindset that both Texas and North Carolina are both very quick to protest, Texas with schematics and designs, and North with these little sighs and a roll of the eyes as patiently tries once again to explain things to his aristocratic older brother. South Carolina has never understood his brother's infatuation with the flight, and figures that if God wanted them to fly, they'd have been given wings. But what South Carolina _does_ understand, is speed. Being fast for its own sake, _that_, he can understand, and he knows his brother does as well, otherwise he wouldn't have become a barnstormer in the years after the war. South Carolina just supposes that flight is the same way for his brother. That has to be the only real reason for North Carolina doing dangerous stunts on planes and calling himself a barnstormer. He's going to get himself killed, or close to it. But North Carolina hasn't reacted well to his brother telling him what to do in a long time, and South Carolina has almost given up the idea that he'll ever be able to just order his little brother around ever again. It's a bit of a loss, but then again, he's glad that his little brother is being independent.

In any case, South Carolina now has grand visions of expansion. They're dancing behind his eyes the way his dreams of independence used to, both times, really. Except this time, South Carolina knows when to cut his losses. He is more than prepared to cut and run if this goes wrong. South Carolina is good enough at chameleon work able to disappear himself into the woodwork if this little venture of his "goes south," so to speak. It would be so very easy for him to slip away and escape notice from the officials. South Carolina doesn't technically exist, after all, so as long as he's careful about his paper trail, he'll be flying under the radar. And it's not as if his own government can punish him for the speakeasy. Half of them buy from him, and the rest know what he is, and know that they cannot persecute him.

The Palmetto State hopes to expand his base of operations soon, from one paltry underground space beneath a church, to several speakeasies, all over his State. Maybe even put some gambling tables in, as well. As long as South Carolina is profiting from breaking the law, he might as well go the extra mile, and bring in all the extra cash he can possibly suck out of his customers. After all, drunkards are always more willing to part with their money than most people usually would be, and there's no sense in turning down the wonderful opportunity being presented to him.

And in the end, it's not as if South Carolina is hurting anyone by this. It's Prohibition that's doing the damage, he thinks. It prohibits free trade! If you ban a valuable commodity, you only serve to make it more valuable. Besides, it's not as if the drinking hurts anyone, only those too stupid to drink to excess, or who get involved in high gambling debts, or can't pay out their credit when they owe. South Carolina is not New Jersey. He has yet to run into any of his customers owing him money, but he promises himself that he will _never_ "collect" the way more unsavory types do, by paying off debts with lives.

He reinforces the fact that he is superior to their lowbrow lack of morals to himself constantly, mostly in little gestures of kindness like a free pack of smokes to good customers, proving to himself that's he's the best one out of all of them, that South Carolina is not a criminal, not really. New Jersey and Illinois are Northerners, even if Illinois is technically Midwestern more than anything else. And one of the biggest things that Northerners just don't understand is that down here, people have standards. South Carolina smiles as he walks through the crowd that is starting to accumulate in the hours after sunset, shaking hands and nodding at faces he barely recognizes. He knows his limits, now better than ever. Besides, South Carolina's standards matter to him, more than the money. On top of that, improper conduct such as that sort of lowbrow thuggery is bad for business.

_Midnight, December 6th, 1925_

Illinois smiles broadly as the next shipment arrives at the back entrance to the speakeasy he's been put in charge of. The loading area in the back alley usually operates in broad daylight, like a lot of Illinois's operations these days. Though tonight, he's decided to have his shipment brought in at midnight, just to shake things up a little. As interesting as this business is, Illinois feels the need to shake things up every now and again. He's only started up in this business lately, and contrary to the popular belief, it wasn't his idea to begin with. No, this whole thing was his new boss's deal, or should he say _capo_? Or maybe Capone, if he's feeling particularly punny. Illinois cringes at the terrible joke, regretting having even thought it up mere seconds after repeating it silently to himself. It seems that no amount of toughening up via crime can really cure him of his terrible punning habits.

Most speakeasies have to operate solely at night and underground in order to evade the police, but not here in Chicago where Capone has a grip like a vice. Or else a firm handshake? Illinois wonders. Only if the handshake is just firm enough to distract you while the conman steals your wallet, he thinks. Capone has this sleazy sort of charm about him, one that speaks of wealth and influence. The media loves it, and the police haven't been able to touch him, another reason why the media loves him. The people of Chicago are more than happy to no longer by dry, and the ability to go get a drink in broad daylight is a much appreciated commodity.

Capone does a lot of things unorthodoxly, like bringing in new shipments in broad daylight, and operating aboveground. It's either a testament to how skillful the man is when it comes to crime, or a sign of how corrupt the city of Chicago has become lately. Probably both, and that's most likely the cause of the chronic heartburn Illinois has been feeling since shortly after Capone opened up shop earlier this year. Vaguely, he wonders if this is how New York feels all the time, since New York City has to be far worse than Chicago.

Another bit of unorthodoxy Capone style was how the man had introduced himself to Illinois at the beginning of the year, and not the other way around. Illinois had been reeling when Capone had simply walked up to him one day when Illinois was going to a speakeasy in town like he had done since about a year after Prohibition had taken effect. At first, Illinois had been too scared of Ohio to do much, afraid of and disgusted with the look on Ohio's face when she'd half-threatened Nebraska at a regional meeting five years ago. But after a few years –as crime rates began to rise in Chicago, a fact that he wouldn't learn until five years later– Illinois had gotten braver. After a few visits to his first speakeasy, his heart pounding from the illegality of it all, Illinois had decided that, hey; he _liked_ breaking the law, well, sort of. At least, he didn't mind breaking it for his own benefit as long as no one got hurt. It made him feel big again, like he was in charge, without Ohio breathing down his neck, and like he was finally in control again. Hah- take that, world. Illinois is going to do what he wants, within reason, of course.

So after two years or so of that sort of thing, timid misdemeanors in back alleys and not paying his parking tickets, the Prairie State had been approached. It was weird, and almost unnatural how quickly Capone had found out about him. Normally, the States introduce themselves, and only to their Senators, Congressmen, Governors and occasionally figures of high importance, like New Jersey did with Edison. Heck, the Garden State has practically been parading the fact that Edison was "her wizard." Illinois understands her need to feel proud, he knows what it's like to cling to anything that makes them special, knowing what it's like to have had power and to have lost it.

The night that Capone introduced himself to Illinois, he remembers that it had been raining. Illinois can't stand the rain, which makes it a problem that his state is so rainy. So, the Prairie State had come into the speakeasy that night in his bright yellow rain coat and then hung it up, ignoring the odd glances he got. After Illinois had had a few drinks or so, Capone had just walked into the bar, and was pointed directly to the State by the bartender. The mobster walked right over to where Illinois was sitting, flanked by two well-dressed toughs after being pointed to him by the bartender. Capone had only confirmed that Illinois called himself Ray Young before revealing that he knew what he _really_ was. He had known somehow that the young man who frequented one of his speakeasies was something more, and what's more, he knew exactly how much more.

In hindsight, it would disturb Illinois that Capone was able to corrupt someone higher up in order to find out about the Representations. Except that Illinois frankly doesn't care any longer. He's too busy making bundles of money and indulging himself. The crime in his heart hasn't corrupted him, it's made the Prairie State strong again. He's on top of the world, and only barely in the shadows. Al Capone is already a household name all across America's States, and maybe someday he'll be all over the world. Illinois would love that, to be able to stretch his newfound influence in his position as the Representation of the Mob all over the globe the way Romano does for the Mafia. The Italian has ignored him, and that's fine. The Mob is not the Mafia, even if he sort of follows the same codes. That's just honor, not being the Mafia. No, he's his own thing now, and he's loving it. He's no longer _just_ a State, part of America and nothing more or less, he's the Mob, a crime organization.

That was the deal Capone had offered him. The chance to be more than he was, to be an Organization and not just a State. He'd said that he'd seen the upswing in power in the American Mafia after they gained a Representation of their own, and said that he wanted to have the same thing for the Mob. And he wanted it to be the Illinois. Memories of power had taunted him from the edge of his mind, and what could Illinois have done but say yes, taking the deal with the devil in return for the power he needed back so desperately? He's got power now, more than he's had in a long, long time. And he loves it. Every piece of it, every single muscle tense with the knowledge that he doesn't just have to stand here and watch the mobsters unload the next shipment for him; if he wanted, the Mob would be able to just go over and heft most of the load all by himself. But the other thing about power is knowing that he doesn't have to, because he has people to do that for him. Business is booming here in Chicago, and in the shadows or not, the Mob loves it.

_Sunrise, January 13th, 1926_

Vermont smiles thinly in the early morning light as the police team assembles in the alley. The sun rises behind them casting a pale glow as the team makes ready for its charge on the speakeasy ahead of them. Six years ago he'd looked at Prohibition with shining ideals, along with Ohio, and many of the other States. Very quickly, however, most of those States that had supported Vermont had started to see Prohibition an irritant just because they realized that it would actually be enforced. Vermont had "retired" out of the Navy for this job, working with the bulls in blue to stop people like the owners of this speakeasy, citizens who think that the law does not apply to them.

Idiots; the law applies to everyone from the highest politician to the humblest farmer to the States to their human charges. Nations are a different matter, but when in Rome they do as the Romans do since diplomatic immunity can only carry them so far. Vermont hopes that some day England will go to a speakeasy the next time America hosts a world meeting, just so that Vermont can have an excuse to make his old oppressor spend a night in jail while the police sort him out through the English Consulate. Maybe it's vindictive, but Vermont still remembers how England had left them alone for such long stretches of time, and how he'd given up Vermont to be largely at the mercy of New York.

Catching New York in the act of something illegal would be the other thing Vermont would love do to do the most these days. The Empire State has been so blatant about the fact that it's he who is the Representation of the American Mafia that it makes Vermont see red. The Green Mountain State is normally a very placid guy, but his idiot neighbor has been way too obvious. The crime families are friggin' based in New York City for goshssake, could New York even _be_ more obnoxiously obvious about his status? The idiot has stuck them right in his heart, and only the twisted fiend's reliance on _omertà_ has kept Vermont from busting his wide open. Since the Mafiosos refuse to talk when questioned, Vermont can only lock them away one at a time, as quickly as he catches them individually, or, if he's lucky, in gangs whenever they think it's safe to try and break the law on his watch.

To make matters worse, New York isn't the only one who has been openly flouting the law these days. Illinois has taken up a crime operation of his own as well, in the form of notorious mobster Al Capone. In the last year alone Vermont knows for a fact that Capone and Illinois have been responsible for easily half of the organized crimes in Chicago. Well, as much "fact" as Vermont has been able to get his hands on, anyway. Illinois seems to be a master at covering his tracks, and Vermont can't prove a dang thing that the other State has done wrong, or that he's become something more than a State. Vermont grinds his teeth; if he could just prove _one thing_…!

But no, Illinois is practically laughing at him from Chicago, and in any case Chicago is not Vermont's place to go in with the cleansing fire of the law. Even if he _could_ prove something, Vermont wouldn't be able to do much, other than present it to the law enforcement in Chicago, which must be corrupt, inept or just plain blind for all the good they've been doing lately. Vermont wishes that he could just declare a war on crime, but he knows that it's impossible to try and fight a war against a transitive verb. No, to fight a war, you need an opponent, which is something that crime is not. It is a thing to defeat, but that doesn't make it an opponent, a distinction that a lot of people in his family don't seem to get all to well. For example, Vermont's pretty sure that Massachusetts would pick a fight with anything that could hit back, and New Hampshire is just busy doing anything stupid and dangerous just to sate his need for excitement to care whether or not he's even fighting an animate object.

The Green Mountain State sighs as he waits for the police team to finish assembling. Vermont's older brother is driving him up the wall with all his stupid thrill seeking behaviors. He's been on New Hampshire's case since the war ended not to do anything stupid, and of course the White Mountain State _swore_, that he wasn't going to do anything stupid, little brother, cross his heart, scout's honor etcetera, etcetera. And of _course_ New Hampshire promptly broke his promise within the year in the most frustrating way he could think of; by becoming a detective. When Vermont had gone nearly apoplectic over his brother's antics, New Hampshire had tried to justify himself by saying that he was just trying to clean up America, that he was trying to do like his baby brother and do some good and Vermont had sighed then, just like he's sighing now. His big brother has always known how to push his buttons, New Hampshire has always been good at saying just the right things to render Vermont's protests useless, and that time was no different.

Still, when Vermont had found out that his brother had so quickly broken his promise, the Green Mountain State had been justifiably annoyed. Heck, he's still annoyed, years later. His crazy older brother is safety conscious, yes, but that doesn't stop Vermont from worrying about him. He wishes that New Hampshire would just stop doing such crazy things, but at the same time, if the White Mountain State ever stopped needing excitement in his life, then he wouldn't be New Hampshire anymore. It wouldn't be the same, and for all his complaining, Vermont wouldn't change a thing about his big brother.

As the police team finally finishes assembling and the sun finishes rising over Burlington, the Green Mountain State bares his teeth in what could normally pass as a smile on anyone but him. On his face, the expression is nothing even close to his normal smiles, since right now it looks like Vermont is about to bite somebody if they get to close. And considering he's about to take down a speakeasy he's suspected for months now, that's not too far from the truth. Burlington has become another infested hub of alcohol dens due to its ports and trading lines. The alcohol pours in and it's all Vermont can do to keep the city clean. Vermont clears his head of that angry though, Vermont watches as the first of last night's patrons stumble out of the illegal bar, and gives the signal to the waiting unit of cops.

The policemen all rush forward, grabbing and arresting those who exit the bar for public drunkenness, then battering downstairs into the underground bar. Almost immediately the sounds of glass breaking and shouting echo out into the street and Vermont's unnatural smile widens; it sounds like music to him, the triumphant anthem of a job well done. Strolling down into the speakeasy himself, the Green Mountain State walks up to the bar where the bartender has at least three guns pointed at him. Slowly, the man brings his hands up over his head, and Vermont shakes his head at the sheer amount of liquor bottles that line the wall behind the man. If only he knew where they were all getting it from, he'd shut down the source forever. Unfortunately, chasing down the source has been like trying to handcuff Al Capone, not at all dissimilar to grabbing at smoke.

Vermont walks around the bar, and spots the sawed off shotgun that the man must have been trying to reach for and whistles lowly. Dang. The guy seriously meant business, didn't he? Well, unfortunately for him and for all the other criminals who would even try to break the law in his State, Vermont means business, too.

_Evening, April 13th, 1927_

Wisconsin smiles blearily at North Dakota in the dim bar, the streetlights outside unable to pierce the feet of concrete above them. The two of them have been drinking since… Wisconsin can't even remember when they started drinking, actually, now that he's thinking about it. Thinking is hard. Instead, Wisconsin picks up the shot glass on the table in front of him, and drains it steadily, then unsteadily turns it over, and stacks it in a nice little pyramid shape he's been making since North Dakota challenged him to a shots contest. Wisconsin likes orderly things, even when he's drunk out of his brain. As soon as Wisconsin puts the glass on the table, a flurry of betting takes place, the other patrons of the Milwaukee speakeasy passing around bills and IOUs and yelling to the bartender to hold the money. North Dakota is grinning stupidly across the table from him, drunk as a skunk, while South Dakota shouts garbled, meaningless phrases loudly, trying to urge his twin brother on to drink more. Both twins are flushed and thoroughly inebriated, and to be accurate, so is Wisconsin.

The Badger State has gotten to know the other States in his region a lot better in the last eight years, a fact that is due entirely to Prohibition. It had all started with Ohio getting all high and mighty about herself as usual, declaring that temperance was tantamount and the like. Then she'd swung Vermont around to their side, and nobody had really remembered how stubborn the quiet Northeastern State could be when pushed. The pair of them had spent a year or so with the Temperance movement, working with them, getting a feel for their cause and the legalities of it, and then they'd presented it to America. And the scheme had worked. Somehow, they'd turned around even of the other States to get Prohibition made into law, an amendment of the Constitution, actually, which was a really amazing in and of itself. Unfortunately, not many of them –Wisconsin included– had really understood that Prohibition as going to apply to them, too. In the end, it's really just what they get for not reading the fine print.

The Dakota twins had gotten mobilized first. Ohio had taken a special pleasure in breaking the news that the ban on alcohol covered the States themselves to Michigan, the twins and Nebraska. Nebraska had vehemently objected, yelling about how she was going to absolutely clean Ohio's clock if the other State got within twenty feet of her at that memorable regional meeting. In the end, Montana had been holding the irate ginger back from attempting to beat the tar out of Ohio, something at which she would have almost certainly failed. Ohio had been smirking the whole way through, as if she had _wanted_ the ginger to just try and hurt her, just to have an excuse to beat up on the other Midwestern State.

After that meeting, Michigan had developed a certain _look_ in his eye that signaled a Plan, and the twins had perked up almost immediately, along with Nebraska. Montana had headed home after that, along with most of the rest of the Midwest. Wisconsin can dimly remember the tall State asking if he was going to get out of there, but Wisconsin had just shaken his head. Something interesting was going to happen with whatever Michigan was Planning, and he wanted to be there for it. Wisconsin had never really been there to see Michigan making a Plan, though he'd seen the end results more than once, and most of the time they were frighteningly hysterical. This time, Wisconsin wanted to be around for it.

When he had walked over, the four troublemakers had paused in their animated huddle to look up at him, incredulous that the Badger State was coming over. Apparently, it turned out that they'd always seen him as straight-laced, one of the supposed goodie-goodies. Well that reputation has certainly changed in the last eight years. Watching as someone pours North Dakota another shot of apple brandy, Wisconsin smirks blearily, knowing that the four troublemakers have certainly succeeded in turning the Badger State into a ne'er do well if now his idea of a good time these days is to get completely wasted with the twins. North Dakota downs his drink with a grin, turning the shot glass over haphazardly, the little glass tottering as unsteadily as South Dakota, who is still raving about how awesome his twin is in the sort of way that he only does when he's well and truly drunk.

Wisconsin had walked over that day in time to find out that the four of them were Planning to stick it to Ohio, and ignore the law if only for the reasons that they found it disagreeable and that Ohio was the one enforcing it. Michigan had been in the process of telling the other three States his intentions of becoming a smuggler when Wisconsin had walked over and the prankster State had frozen up, a look of guarded mistrust on his face. After Wisconsin had professed his interest in the Plan and sworn on some things very vulgar and personal that he wouldn't snitch without –to his credit– turning as red as Nebraska's hair, the Badger State was allowed in on the four troublemakers' Plans.

Wisconsin and the twins had both backed out on becoming smugglers, Wisconsin because he wasn't ready to risk his life and limb just to spite Ohio –something that had reinforced the perception that he was a goodie-goodie– and the twins because South Dakota had given his twin such a severe glare that North Dakota hadn't said anything at all, only communicated his disappointment though his crestfallen face. Nebraska had offered to see f she could run smuggling operations via airplane, claiming with a dangerous smirk that she knew a guy. Michigan had rubbed his hands gleefully together, and the five of them had resumed the huddle more or less smoothly with the unusual addition of Wisconsin.

After that, things had gone as well as any of them could have hoped. Michigan has for the last eight years been enjoying himself as he runs rings around Ohio with a ground smuggling organization, while Nebraska has taken to the skies in a plane routinely carrying a cargo of booze courtesy of Louisiana. Wisconsin thinks it's more than a little funny that Ohio, self-proclaimed Queen of the Skies doesn't even know about Nebraska's use of the airways to subvert her grip on the Midwest because Ohio is too busy being outrun on the ground by Michigan, who has been enjoying himself immensely.

Michigan has also been running some private project in the back of his head for a while, something he only really talks about when truly drunk, and then only vaguely, claiming that the other States wouldn't get where he's coming from with his ingenious idea. Wisconsin would be more impressed if Michigan would just tell them what he was doing in the first place instead of being so damn cryptic about it. It's not a big deal though, since knowing Michigan, the prankster State is probably going to come clean eventually, most likely with a flash and a bang.

Of course, all their operations are completely outclassed by Illinois, the sly devil. Wisconsin wouldn't have known the other State to have had it in him, but then again, the Badger State would have assumed the same about himself if someone had asked him ten years ago. Still, the changes to Illinois have been far more drastic than anything that could have changed about Wisconsin in the last seven years, and as far as he knows, Illinois has only been in the game for the last two and yet he's still showing such drastic changes that Wisconsin –along with the rest of the Midwest for the most part– is starting to worry about his health.

At first, he'd been pleased just to know that someone else from their region had decided to stick it to Ohio, but then he'd really learned about what's been going on in Chicago lately, and started to worry. In the last three years, Illinois has started dressing sharper, turning in his raincoat for a pinstripe suit and a nifty hat, and his small earnest smile for one that sort of reeks of insincerity, but seems too wide not to be real. To add to that, the Prairie State has become a lot more confident, something he sort of lost after the Civil War, convinced –illogically– that it was somehow his fault that the entire war had happened, muttering something about the Democrats and schisms and a whole ton of apologies.

At first, Wisconsin was just happy that the other State was getting back on his feet, seemingly getting back to his old, confident self and thought nothing else of it. The fact that Illinois was annoying the piss out of Ohio with his new boldness and his barely illicit business practices was just a bonus, no matter how delicious of a bonus it had happened to be. After Illinois had backed down at the end of the Civil War, Ohio had stepped forward to take his place for the changing region that later became the Midwest. The idea that Illinois would be taking over again would be a real nice occurrence, since Illinois has always been so much nicer than Ohio, who's just way too full of herself to be an effective leader.

Except that Illinois hardly resembles himself anymore. Wisconsin is _worried_, it seems when that much crime infests a State's heart, and the ills of it begin to show. Illinois is starting to get callous, and the last time Wisconsin spoke to him, he'd tried to tell the other Midwestern State his theory, only to watch the charisma and charm slide right off Illinois's face as the now coldhearted State had brushed him off with a severe warning that only barely covered what was a blatant threat. Illinois had told Wisconsin to mind his own business, but the snarl with which he'd said it meant that the suggestion was nothing like a friendly one.

So Wisconsin has stepped back, feeling worried. But the Badger State _had_ sent a letter to New Hampshire, since the New Englander had become a detective after the Great War. He's been hoping that New Hampshire will do what he can for Illinois, since it has become obvious that Wisconsin can do nothing in this situation. Perhaps someone who is trained to handle this sort of thing will do better, and he particularly hopes that now that New Hampshire has started working for the Bureau of Prohibition that he'll be able to find a way to remove the criminal elements from of Chicago and therefore take the taint out of Illinois's heart.

But for now, this entire thing is quite out of his hands, so Wisconsin focuses instead on the Plan, and on getting himself complete and thoroughly drunk. Returning his mind to the present, Wisconsin watches as the betting starts up again furiously around the small dingy table Wisconsin and North Dakota are seated at. Normally all five of them are present for their monthly night of drinking themselves into a tremendous hangover, but tonight Nebraska is staying in Kansas City passing off her cargo to Kansas and Missouri. Michigan is also not present, and is off distracting Ohio again, which seems to have become his diversion of choice to pardon the pun in the last eight years. So, instead it's just Wisconsin and the twins tonight, with two of their fellowship missing. Wisconsin feels a little sad that they're not here, but either one or both of them is on a run on any given night, so maybe this is just what they get for letting North Dakota plan these get-togethers in the first place.

About a year into the Plan they had found out that Wisconsin could admirably hold his liquor. In fact, he could hold his drink better than all of the others except for North Dakota, whom he was around dead even with. It's funny, really, that South Dakota, the more straight laced brother of the two twins holds his drink the worst out of the now five Midwestern troublemakers, and that North Dakota, for all his insanity can out-drink just about everyone in the family except for Wisconsin. When they'd discovered this fact, the white haired and at that point highly inebriated State had tried to teach Wisconsin about the finer part of getting utterly plastered. The only thing Wisconsin has learned from North Dakota though, is that both he and his twin tend to get very eloquent when drunk, able to wax poetic on anything they so choose, provided there is a good deal of swearing thrown in.

Wisconsin throws a hand out haphazardly to the right to grasp for another shot and instead collides with another patron. Mumbling a slurred apology, Wisconsin tries to find who it was that he hit, but can't so he forgets that he's hit someone at all. His hand still outstretched, someone puts a shot glass in it and Wisconsin contemplates the little glass. It's a wonder that so much is contained in such a small receptacle; how many people are willing to break the law in order to get the alcohol it contains. The Badger State knows he's reaching his tolerance level, and that he's going to have to stop this soon, but then as he looks into the shot glass, he figures that it's bad form to waste the alcohol that presumably so many people went to such lengths to procure. With that thought, Wisconsin drains the shot glass, and turns it over, knocking down his entire pyramid.

As the alcohol hits his system, Wisconsin's vision begins to black out, his mind going fuzzy. On his way to passing out, Wisconsin faintly registers North Dakota, slumped on the table. It seems that the Badger State has already won this round, so he feels fine to pass out. With the sound of the other patrons trying to collect their bets from the bartender, Wisconsin's eyes close heavily. Just before he slips into unconsciousness, the Badger State thinks of something to advance the Plan. It's going to involve politics, and a good deal of campaigning, but Wisconsin thinks that in the end it will all be worthwhile to make politics his business.

_Noon, November 20th, 1928_

California twirls gently in front of the mirror, eyes on the vivid blue dress in all its ritzy glamour. She feels weird like this, with her hair blonde now curly and short, barely covering her neck instead of the way it used to be, hanging down just past her shoulders in straight sheets. The dress is strange, too. It's too revealing by far, coming up a good length past her thigh. But California looks so _good_ this way, like one of her movie stars stepped off the silver screen into dazzling color vision, lit up by the midday sun streaming in through the window. California didn't know she had it in her to be this pretty. Nevada was the good-looking sister, and completely unafraid to show it. Nevada was the one who rode around roping cattle and wearing shirts –shirts!– that showed her midsection. Arizona does the same, and California just wishes that her sisters would show her how to be unafraid of herself, how to stop being so cripplingly shy when it comes to the way she looks. California is a warrior poet, the general, the fighter, the storyteller. She's unused to being beautiful.

But the times are changing, and so is California. California can feel it in her soul that something had started changing within her after the advent of the silver screen. Something is new, wonderful and more than just a little frightening. Suddenly she's more than just the epicenter of the West, she's the center of entertainment. Oh, radio is still more popular by far, but California's film palaces are cropping up all over the United States, a resplendent wave of glamorous picture shows. Someday she's going to chase radio out of the world, and movies will be all there is. Even now she can feel the potential influence of her stories. It's not the sort of influence that she holds as a State, it's not the influence of a Representation. No, she's not taking on a second roll. But it's something similar, something exciting.

California has always been a storyteller, but now Hollywood is the land of stories, and the advent of television is sweeping across the country, bringing those epics into the homes of the people in moving glory. Truly, radio is already on its way to dying out. This year has been more than interesting. Switzerland hosted the Olympic Winter Games and even though America and his family had not gotten the most medals, they had still come in second overall, which has to count for something. Connecticut was happy leaving, anyway. He'd won both silver and gold in the skeleton races with a pair of brothers and one of the brothers had won them another silver in the individual bobsleigh event. The small Mid-Atlantic State had practically been _bouncing_ after the Games had ended.

And then almost a month later after that, the St. Francis dam had failed. California shudders, remembering having woken up at midnight, choking and sputtering for air at the feeling of 500 of her people drowning. California had watched as in her mind's eye as the waters cascaded down through the San Francisquito Canyon, unable to move, to breathe, to scream. The Gold State thought she was never going to be able to breathe again, let alone stop crying after that. It was almost as bad as the quake twelve years ago the feeling of San Francisco in flames, the burning sensation and the shakes a strange, evil contrast to the deadly cold waters that had been held back then let loose by the dam.

Things had only continued to get worse. Illinois was acting up, and the primary election for the Republican candidate had been the site of bombings and assassinations. California would expect that from the Democrats, not her Republicans. They were Illinoisans, so it's different, but still, it's completely inexcusable behavior. California frowns, the timid look of surprise created by her appearance on her face replaced by a frown. She doesn't look good frowning, and makes a note not do it anymore if she can help it. It makes ugly lines appear in her face. Except that California has seen her actresses make the cutest little pouts, and she thinks that that expression would be a good thing to replace her frown with. She'll try practicing that later.

In better news, though, Kansas's woman, Amelia Earhart crossed the Atlantic by plane. She knows that the woman was only a passenger, but the achievement is still tremendous. California must imagine that the ever-elusive Sunflower State had smiled at that, and that Ohio and Nebraska must have been practically crowing at the event of a woman crossing the Atlantic by plane. Earhart has been setting records for women aviators for years now, and California admits that it's exciting. Maybe someday she'll try flying, though she thinks that her place will always be on the ground when it comes to fighting. She's not going to try what Ohio and Nebraska did, masquerading as young men in order to fly.

California had then lost her bid for the Olympic Games to the Netherlands. But she doesn't mind, it was a good year, for America, and for women. Florida had been happy, having won three gold medals two from the same man. The Sunshine State used to be California's "sister," though she hadn't been for a long time. Oddly enough, the Great War had fixed the rift between them left by the Civil War, as they'd both been tasked with keeping morale up at home in between various deployments to the warzones. They'd seen each other a lot through that war, and they'd been forced to get along for the sake of their family. America's family seemed to have been cemented back together by the Great War, actually. The rift between North and South still exists, but when so many on both sides took up their jobs in the same military organizations, there was no option left to them other than to make up, even if only it was for the most part gruff acknowledgements of their old scars and stories of previous fights that she suspects were traded.

After California had sent a telegraph to Florida the other day about Hoover's victory in the Presidential Election, Florida had replied with a telegraph telling California to go to one of her local movie palaces and watch a short film she'd put together with her favorite new animator. She'd said something about sound pictures and California had been intrigued. Talkies aren't a new thing, and "_The Jazz Singer_" wasn't bad, but if Florida got the animation to sing, that would definitely be interesting to see. First moving pictures, then sound films; California wonders what will be next in the world of entertainment, color? Maybe the pictures will just end up flying off the screen someday. California laughs to herself a little, then freezes in surprise. The sound was clear and happy, not the normal snort of derision that would have normally been appropriate. No, this sound was genuinely happy, and California isn't sure how that happened.

She tries again, thinks of the time that Texas accidentally rode into a cactus while showing off on his horse. Sure enough, that clear, bright laugh rings out of California again and the Gold State looks at her reflection in wonder. Tentatively, she smiles, and it's a real smile, happy, not sarcastic or cold the way they normally are. It's not _free_ per se, like the way Texas smiled the first time he rode a horse by himself, back when they were kids living with Mexico. Nor is it a smile of triumph, like the look on her face that Florida had sported after she had recited her State Constitution in English for the first time. That look of complete, heart-bursting happiness on Florida's face when the she had first really grasped English was a different kind of smile than what California is now doing. No, this smile _shines_, but it isn't radiant, not infectious. It looks a little fake, even. But it's still a smile.

California spins again in the dress, hearing the clicking of all the sequins, watching the bounce in her recently curled, short blonde hair, the twirl of the dress. Everything is so new, so alien to her. But it fits her still, somehow. It's another one of those changes California can now only half guess at, one of those things she has to grow into. California still has so much ahead of her. Now that all the wars are over, after all, they called it the war to end all wars not for nothing. No one on Earth, not a single Representation wishes to do that over again. No more seas of trenches in the future, no more fighting. Instead, California is going to focus on domestic issues, like rebuilding a dam that won't do that ever again, and to build buildings that won't catch fire or crumble when a quake hits. And in between, maybe she'll keep practicing that smile? After all, it's become her business to tell a story, she might as well take the next step into the world of the media. It's going to become California's business to be beautiful, to be glamorous, and she'll be damned if she doesn't give it her all.

_Midnight, October 28th, 1929_

New York smiles nervously as he accepts the shipment from New Jersey's people. The sun set a few hours ago, and things are covered in shadow, including the faces of the two men New Jersey sent along with New York's shipment. They do the handing over in relative silence, since New York has a feeling small talk would be completely useless in this situation, and only serve to irritate New Jersey's "couriers." He doesn't like these men in suits, despite how professional they might look, New York knows that some things like basic etiquette are beyond them. If they're anything, they're certain to be professional murderers and law-breakers. And worst of all, they make him twitchy. New York might be rather tall for the Northern States, who all seem so ridiculously short when compared to the Midwest or the South, but these men make him afraid. New York knows he can outrun them, probably. But he also knows that they're almost certainly carrying weapons, and in his long life, New York has never yet met a person who can outrun bullets, and almost certainly never will.

The latter reason is why he's become a runner for a speakeasy in town, on top of something else, a little more superstitious. New York is good at watching numbers, predicting them, following trends in the symbols. It's something he's always been able to do since he was little, really. New York had heard from North Carolina during the Great War when they were stationed together in Europe that Louisiana can do something similar with raw trade and the more arcane trends of supply and demand on a level that's more instinct than anything else. It was intriguing at the time, and still is, even though New York hasn't even found the time to talk to her about it, maybe try to compare notes. In any event, he doesn't think it's all too similar with what his Southerner "sibling" can do, since all North Carolina had even mentioned about her talent was that it was weird, and really, really useful, since it meant that Louisiana could tell them how to try and cure their economic diseases, and would point you in the right direction if your economy wasn't doing well so you could get better.

And now another disease among them seems to have sprung up, less shocking than economic distress, and much harder to notice, but far more explosive. It seems that when crime rates rise too high in a State's heart city, their personality changes in response. Illinois has become the ultimate example having gone from timid to terror in under three years of the Mob moving in to Chicago. After the Massacre on St. Valentines, New York had yelled at New Jersey –or as much as he had ever dared to, since the tommy gun had been resting there in her lap like some sinister version of an overfed housecat– for what had happened to him, but the tiny Mafioso had simply smiled that grating oil-slick half-smile as she'd told him there was nothing she could have done about Illinois, that Capone was out of her reach.

The look of this whole illness, now that New York thinks about, it's something he realizes must highly tempting for those without power, to want to take to crime to gain confidence. It seems so easy for the States to take the short-term health and strength that apparently comes with embracing the darker sides of their populations. It must have looked so good to Illinois, who'd lost all that after the Civil War, to just take hold of the power that had been offered to him. Now New York is on guard for his morality, trying not to sink that way, despite the fact that his City has been infected for nine years now. New York shrouds himself instead in Harlem and baseball, trying now to lose himself in Jazz music so that he can stay afloat from the tides of crime that flow from across the Hudson to corrupt him. New Jersey might have chosen the power that comes with embracing the criminal underworld and all it means, but New York prefers poetry and jazz to underworld politics, and would rather use a bat to play ball than to break someone's knees. The Empire state has found a way to power through his culture, and has no need for New Jersey and her cutthroat tactics and underworld maneuvering.

But despite the amount of crime that's moved into his heart, New York feels _good_, surprisingly enough. The stocks are up, the margin is good, and business is good all around for him these days. He can almost hear the sounds of the Harlem nightlife even though he's on the complete other end of the island. New York can still feel the crack of his bat cracking a triple in Yankee Stadium, can still hear the roar of the crowds around him. Tomorrow he's going to play Massachusetts, and he feels more than ready to kick the ginger's ass. New York recently bought himself a new jacket, one made with a Yankee's logo on it. He _had_ been waiting for his next paycheck, but hell, his line of credit is good, so he might as well splurge now, tonight, and try to make it up later on his next paycheck. After all, how many small payments can he possibly be made to make on just one jacket? Of course, this is completely disregarding the fact that New York still needs to finish paying for his truck since his stupid boss made him buy the rickety old thing out of his pocket. No, New York has credit to spare enough for the jacket. He's done the math enough times, and he's pretty sure probably got more than enough for a jacket. Probably. Anyway, the jacket is already made, so it's a little late to second-guess his finances. Besides, New York will find out if he has enough credit after this job is over and he picks up his nifty new jacket.

It was this head for numbers of his that told New York that alcohol is the place to be, and even though he dislikes it for the most part, he'd trusted the numbers, since math never lies, hey? So New York had started working for an old friend who used to run a damn fine establishment on 43rd street before America declared the sale of liquor illegal. The bartender had moved underground with the start of Prohibition, and New York was bored, so the Empire State got in, thinking it would be easy to get out. It isn't. After the man got bought out by some Italians with competitive interest in the market, no doubt some faction of New Jersey's people, New York has been working under a new boss, one he hates instead of his friend, who he's been told not to ask questions about.

This all just adds up to why he's been trying to get out of this business since he got in, hating just about every second of this life, except for the reduced prices on liquor, provided New York remembers to buy from his employer. His stupid boss has been a real dick about paying him, and been seriously stingy. The bar's bouncer, another criminal enforcer type gave him a seriously threatening glare the last time New York tried to ask for a raise. It's not something he'd like to try again, since he's pretty sure that whatever was implied in that glare will actually be enforced if he ever asks about better pay again. New York is just glad these bozos have no idea that he's functionally immortal. They'd definitely just try to find a way to profit from it.

So the Empire State is a courier now, helping a friend who still does business at the same old location, only now it's no longer on the up and up. New York has assumed that it would be an adventure, and in a sense, he guesses that it is. He's used to death, as disturbing as that sounds. New York was a soldier before he was a pilot, and in both cases he saw death, the dead, and the dying. So he has learned that he can turn a blind eye when it's not him doing the killing. As long as New York is never asked to anything more illegal than accepting shipments of liquor from his neighbor, it's a good job while he waits for his stocks to bring in the money.

Still, the twitchiness that comes with the job, always looking over your shoulder to make sure that no one is going to knife or shoot you to take you shipment is a severe downside. The thrill was exciting for the first few times, and New York figures that it still is, but now it's in a different way that reminds him of being a fighter pilot. The kind of adrenaline rush you get when you realize that you can actually get killed doing your job. New York has always been in search of adventure and the next big thrill, and after the Great War ended, he needed something to do. Stocks was an interesting hobby that it seemed only he got, so it wasn't as if he could share that with people. And there really isn't anything too exciting about stocks for people who don't _get_ numbers the way he does, when New York thinks about it.

And this is why he's smiling nervously at the intimidating couriers New Jersey sent across the Hudson along with the home-brewed beer. They're much taller than him, and wider too. Plus, their suits are of better quality, whereas New York is wearing something he picked up recently for the job. New York assumes that they're wearing suitably intimidating scowls under their fedoras, to boot. New Jersey has always been the delinquent in the little trio between New York, Massachusetts and her. And now that the Mafioso have moved into New York's city, New Jersey has reached her influence across the Hudson to take control, letting all the blame fall squarely on New York. There's not much he can do about it, for now. Not many would believe him if he told, anyway. Her reputation is still good, at least for now. By now, the secret is practically impossible to keep with all the people New Jersey has revealed her operation to. In less than a few years, she's going to be called out, most likely by New Hampshire or Vermont. So, New York waits, because eventually, he'll get his chance to undo all her lies, or at least the ones that concern him.

After the handoff finishes, New York nods at New Jersey's couriers, still smiling, still nervous. The sun continues to set, already hidden behind the skyscrapers, the tall buildings making everything darker. As he gets into the truck he makes "deliveries" in the blonde State resolves to get a new, better suit soon, maybe directly after he picks up his next month's pay from his old bartender-turned-boss since his credit line right now is more than just a little strained. New York leaves for his friend's speakeasy, making sure to pass Wall Street on his route back, own little superstition for good luck in business. Maybe the practice hasn't done much for him recently, but things have been picking up for New York lately, so what's the harm in a little charm for good business?

_Morning, June 25th, 1930_

Massachusetts smirks as he strolls around Boston in the early morning, whistling to himself as the sun rises. All he's doing is smiling, trying not to grimace at his circumstances, and the circumstances of the people he cares about. Well, maybe cares is the wrong term. He's pretty sure he doesn't _care_, exactly, about New York and New Jersey, or at least not in the way most people care about others. Massachusetts cares that they're sick, but normally he wouldn't. Normally, Massachusetts would tease the two of them about it, then return to the things he was comfortable with, like baseball and fighter planes and teasing the only real friends he has. But now, both of them are really, really sick, and Massachusetts hasn't the faintest trace of an idea how to handle that.

He's used to teasing New York about his New Negro Movement, trying to maybe even learn something from the idiot, or talk about baseball, Babe Ruth, all the heroic statistics and the athletes who win them. It's why he'd gone to visit New York that day, to play ball and kick the damn Yankee's pansy ass. That, and to check up on him, because he'd heard about Black Tuesday, and about how badly the Stock Exchange had crashed, and dammit, he'd been _worried_. He's _still_ worried, even six months later. It was wrong then, and it's still wrong now.

The Bay State had walked in after knocking in the door when the other State hadn't answered, using the key New York gave him a while back. Massachusetts had been worried and scared, just a little, because even though he's an idiot, New York has always had the manners to at least answer the door when someone knocks, even when he knows it's Massachusetts doing the knocking. Massachusetts had entered through the door only to find the apartment airless, smelling like disease and old food, sickness and things that should never belong in a home. He'd found New York in the bathroom of the apartment, curled on the floor barely dressed on the cold tile, stained and frigid, shivering as if caught in a snowstorm, mumbling about margins and needing more of them, going on and on and on about how the market was gone, gone gone, never coming back- Massachusetts shakes his head, trying to clear that image out of his mind, the image of one of the only real friends he's never admitted he has in such a condition.

Recession is too mild a word for whatever this is, Massachusetts can't even possibly imagine that that's what historians will call it. Recessions are colds. This is an illness that he thinks could _kill_ if given enough time to properly fester, the kind that Louisiana had morbidly predicted at the end of the Antebellum Era, the one she said would kill the entire South if America abolished slavery. Massachusetts didn't believe her then, and he still doesn't believe the claim, except that now there's been planted in him a seed of doubt. The Southern State has something similar to New York's head for numbers, and now even that has failed the Empire State, so maybe she was right, then? Massachusetts shudders as he walks, pulling his jacket up a little closer to himself, trying to block out a cold more mental than physical, denying to himself that all those years ago Louisiana was right, because the Bay State already has enough to deal with as it is, and he doesn't need new revelations about old already too painful histories, now long buried, to complicate his life any more than it has already become.

To make matters worse, that fuck-you-and-die-whatever is spreading. New Jersey's sick, too, now, only her case is a little more complicated than their neighbor's. While New York is being forced to ride out his illness, shaking and shivering, the Empire State seems to have given his neighbor his whatever-in-hell-this-is. New Jersey had been claiming that she's now sick because her economy is so tied to New York's, and Massachusetts had bought that, at least for a while. After all, the two of them have had nearly identical symptoms; coughing, sneezing, high fevers, and others more alarming he doesn't want to think about. What would look like some sort of flu to humans became symptoms of economic distress in the States, and both New Jersey and New York have it now. Massachusetts is sure that it's on its way to becoming an epidemic with the way it's already been spreading.

By the time New Jersey had gotten sick, Massachusetts had already moved New York to Boston, and the other State hadn't even been in any position to form coherent sentences, let alone protest the move in his delirium. All Massachusetts had had to do was just lift the by that point frail Empire State into the taxi, and that was it. New York had fallen asleep almost immediately after the taxi had started moving, he was so exhausted. The other State had lost the little amount of muscle tone he'd ever claimed to have had, and now instead of being lithe, the Empire State has become skinny, having lost a beyond unhealthy amount of weight to this illness.

Thankfully, New York has been slowly getting better over the last six months. He's been able to keep down food, and the first time he so much as was able to glare at the clam chowder Massachusetts had given him and mumbled a complaint about there not being enough tomatoes in the broth, the Bay State had practically shouted from joy. Complaints meant that New York was getting back to his old self, however long this convalescence is going to end up being.

New Jersey had started visiting within a month of Massachusetts's moving of their neighbor. Massachusetts was frankly surprised it took her even that long to come, since the Garden State is usually the biggest worrier out of the three of them, but he hadn't said anything. Having her there was an invaluable asset, since she actually knew how to care for the sick. The first time New Jersey had visited, though, she'd looked horrified, openly reflecting a look Massachusetts had been trying to keep off his face since he found the Empire State in his apartment. He was scared again, then, more than he should have been, of the face that New Jersey made, something like a cross between guilt and terror.

After that first day, New Jersey had made sure to visit much more frequently after that, brining with her warm blankets, better knowledge of how to care for an ailing State and chowder made with tomatoes the way New York liked it. And as New York had started recovering in the last six months, Jersey had started to get worse. It started with the generic cough they'd all gotten, the one that's been spreading around the country like wildfire as credit lines everywhere failed and the unemployment rates rose. It had gotten worse as New Jersey had tried to shake off Massachusetts's concern, telling him she was fine, just fine, and look, she brought more chowder, and some of the creamy kind for him too, isn't that great- Massachusetts can't believe he ever bought that act, that he'd ever believed a single word to come out of her dirty lying mouth.

No, it's wrong to call New Jersey a liar, she's trying her best to make up for what she did –has been doing now– fuck. Massachusetts doesn't know what to do, so he just keep going over the memories, reexamining everything, all the pointed glares New York shot at the Garden State that she either shrugged off like usual or cringed at, looking guilty and sickly. Those glares had eventually turned into long conversations behind closed doors as New York had gotten stronger. Even thought they were shouting through half of them, the two Mid-Atlantic States had always quieted down before Massachusetts could hear anything more useful than small snatches of their conversations. He remembers that New Jersey always had worn long sleeves, other things long out of style and an ever-present scarf, all things Massachusetts had never seen her in before then.

Massachusetts hadn't been able to force The Garden State to stay in Boston, and to some extent he was glad for it. Just like there's not much he can do for New York, he knew- _knows_ that he can't fix Jersey either. Damnit. Hindsight is always 20-20. It pisses Massachusetts off how impotent the last six months have made, unable to take care of the only two people that matter to him at all. Eventually, New Jersey had come to visit, and had collapsed right on top of the fruit basket she'd brought, half-comically trying to shield the out of season products she'd probably procured at some expense just to try to get some vitamins into New York. It was exactly the kind of thing New Jersey did, shielding the expensive fruit basket instead of her face when she hit the floor.

New Jersey had fallen that day like someone had punched her square in the temple, and went down, hard. It had scared the living shit out of Massachusetts to see her fall like that. The next thing he knew, New York was on his feet without support for the first time in ages, yelling about how he'd _told_ her that this was going to happen; about how New York _knew_ that her secret was going to come out eventually. All it did was make Massachusetts wonder and panic as the two of them started fighting, not even remotely following the thread of the proceedings.

The next thing he knew, New York had torn off the scarf New Jersey was wearing, revealing large, angry bruises on her neck. It had looked like someone tried to strangle her at some point. As the Garden State slowly stood up and took off her long jacket, looking defeated, Massachusetts's eyes had gone wide in horror as he spotted the large bruises in various stages of healing. Massachusetts stared, and noticed that these bruises were reminiscent of what happens when the States go to war. Large bruises that don't heal as quickly as most mundane injuries do for them. But they weren't at war then, and that had left Massachusetts in horror. He had been so angry for a reason he still can't place as he had tried to understand who did this to her.

Massachusetts had just stared at her as New Jersey had stood there, leaning on New York, a reversal of the last few months, looking diminished and shamed somehow. Slowly, New Jersey had come clean under New York's still ever-present glare. Shaking, the Garden State had sat down, shaking, nursing her aching head, practically _collapsing_ on the Empire State for chrissake as she had explained how she's the American Mafia. Yeah, New Jersey isn't just a _part_ of the American branch of _La Cosa Nostra_- she _is_ the _La Cosa Nostra_. She'd taken on a second Representation, only instead of taking something benign like Maine's second role as Naval Intelligence, or New Hampshire's job as the Bureau of Prohibition, she'd taken up a crime Representation, something Massachusetts didn't think was possible.

New Jersey had haltingly explained to Massachusetts that the Mafia had started infighting about a year ago. They're tearing the organization apart now, it seems. They're trying man by man to bring down the current structure, attempting to burn away what they dislike in an internal revolution of lead blood and fire, between Massachusetts had listened, feeling overwhelmed as New York had eventually taken over from the Garden State when she had burst entirely into tears at the death of one the _capos_ she'd apparently always had a soft spot for. Because of _course_ New Jersey would have a soft spot for her favorite murdering mobster.

The Empire State's voice was hard as he had bitterly explained that, contrary to the rumors, it is not New York who is the American Representation of the Mafia, but New Jersey. The Garden State thought she could handle it, and for over a decade, she had. And now, it seems that, suddenly, she can't. Even now as he stalks around Boston, to Massachusetts it still seems a small miracle that New Jersey could even stand when she had arrived here with a fruit basket a little over a week ago. So, Massachusetts had taken her in, too. It's all he _could_ have done, really. Fuck it he's helpless. Massachusetts stops walking and pounds a fist into the wall of an innocent city building, angry –he should be _doing_ something–

Now a week has passed since then, and the Bay State is more than overwhelmed, he's drowning. At least when New Jersey was healthy he could rely on her being there to have a better range of medical knowledge than him. But now she's sick Massachusetts doesn't know how to handle this. The only two people he cares for at all are ill now, and he has to watch after them, pray that they won't get worse. And moreover, that there's nothing he can do to change that. So he walks aimlessly around Boston in the cold, trying to get away from that ill house, fighting off his own case of super Recession, now spread from New York to New Jersey to him. The effect of Black Tuesday is rippling outward throughout America's States. Soon, Massachusetts can imagine that the illness will travel all over the world, infecting all the Nations and their kind.

Massachusetts openly grimaces in the cold Boston morning. He needs a drink, and he needs one badly. He figures that the two Mid-Atlantic States can watch after themselves for a while, provided they don't get worse. New Jersey can still manage herself competently, and she knows for the most part how to deal with New York's complete and utter nonsense. Despite the fact that she's practically limping around Massachusetts's apartment now, New Jersey still refuses to ask Romano for aid. Her pride won't let her ask for help from him, even though she's already grudgingly accepted what Massachusetts has to offer. But she won't take help from Romano, or even ask from it, not from the Nation that taught her how to be what she's become. And at this point, Massachusetts is pretty sure that Romano wouldn't help New Jersey anyway, from what she's grudgingly told him about her training and her deal with the elder Mafioso Representation.

This entire situation scares Massachusetts half to death, more so than he'd ever felt afraid in the cockpit of a fighter pilot during the Great War. With a roiling fire that stews inside of him, Massachusetts hates what New Jersey has gotten herself involved with, wishing he could come up with a plan to get her out of it. This entire business is terrible, but right now as he stalks around the streets of Boston in the early morning, there seems to be nothing Massachusetts can do about it, other than stay with his friends as they rides out the storm together, writhing and shivering the whole way through.

_Noon, October 17th, 1931_

New Hampshire affords himself a smile, sitting in his office, openly smirking wider than he has since the Great War ended. Al Capone is behind bars. They only got him on tax evasion, true, but they got him anyway, in the end. The lawbreakers always get their punishment, one way or another. Now Capone is safely ensconced in jail, where he'll stay for the rest of his life if New Hampshire can get his way. And New Hampshire knows how to get his way, mostly through sheer bull-headed perseverance and, these days, through reputation. Being one of the original thirteen States gives him a good amount of sway in the family, though it doesn't translate well into regular, human affairs.

Still, New Hampshire makes due, making sure occasionally to enjoy himself as he works, shutting away criminals for the public good. After all, if he doesn't enjoy himself as he helps society, then New Hampshire might never get out and have any fun at all. He's almost a shut-in these days, staying cooped up behind his desk unless he's chasing someone down, or taking on a new case. Being a detective isn't the worst day job he could have taken after the war ended, and it pays well enough as long as he can get customers. That's one of the downsides to only being able to use his reputation inside the family; not being noteworthy on the more mundane level of his life.

New Hampshire likes being a detective, though. Thinking on his feet, chasing down leads in back alleys; it's all so _exciting_. New Hampshire had missed all the excitement after the war ended, to tell the truth. He always falls into the same pattern when he's not fighting, really. For all his self-control and good manners, New Hampshire can generally only enjoy peace for about a year or two before he starts missing the sound of gunfire, the report of guns over his head signaling that a wrong move could kill him- New Hampshire sighs wistfully, then hacks out a wracking cough. Stupid Recession.

It's not really that the White Mountain State doesn't _enjoy_ peace, exactly, and it's not like he's got a death wish. If anything, he's more attached to his life, limb and pursuit of happiness than many of the other States are. It's just that New Hampshire really can't stand inactivity, and his idea of the pursuit of happiness generally includes some sort of actual pursuit. New Hampshire doesn't unnecessarily take risks, he's always very careful, has backup plans, makes sure that he always knows where all the exits are when entering a building, and makes sure to properly stake out anywhere he suspects is hiding an operation. And New Hampshire _is_ cautious, despite the need for adventure he "inherited" from America.

Especially when other people are involved in his schemes, because then New Hampshire invariably ratchets up the need for security and preparation all the way up to eleven. Despite what his baby brother says about his habits, The White Mountain State is never going to let anyone else get hurt or injured on his watch if there's anything he can even remotely do to prevent it. A fact that, of course, loops back around to his decision to become a detective after the Great War ended. New Hampshire had done his best to stay occupied, really he had, despite the fact that his brother didn't buy that at all, but New Hampshire just isn't cut out to be like Vermont. He's just not able to sit back quietly during peace time. Hell, Vermont hasn't really been doing much sitting back quietly either, despite all his promises. Dang, the kid is a hypocrite, yelling at his brother, what with how the Green Mountain State now seems to be trying to clean out his lands, one speakeasy at a time with his bare hands.

New Hampshire is a little bit annoyed and a whole lot impressed with what his baby brother's been doing. Still, it makes him worry, just a little, that Vermont's going to get himself into trouble that he can't get out of. Logically, New Hampshire knows that that probably won't happen, but that doesn't stop him from worrying. If the White Mountain State actually stopped to think about it, he'd probably have to admit that that's how Vermont feels about him. In any case, the two of them are each other's only brother, but that doesn't mean that they have to smother each other with that fact. New Hampshire trusts his little brother to walk on his own two feet without falling over. If anything, Vermont is almost more capable than New Hampshire is, what with how organized the other State is. New Hampshire would only be marginally ashamed to have to call his little brother to bail him out of a tough spot if a case got over his head. Vermont has always made good backup in the past during wartime, and that shouldn't change during peacetime, especially with how Vermont seems to be trying to turn himself into some sort of hero.

Speaking of cases, New Hampshire looks at the manila envelope on the table next to the newspaper triumphantly exclaiming Al Capone's incarceration. He'd been hired years ago by Wisconsin to check up on Illinois, see if he could clear out Capone, and fix Chicago, just enough to bring Illinois back down to normal. Well, Capone is gone now, so maybe Illinois can finally start to be rehabilitated by the rest of the Midwest back into a mostly law-abiding citizen. He'll check in on that in a year or so, see if Illinois's condition gets any better as they clean out the crime that's infested his heart city.

But while he waits for the Midwest to take care of their own, New Hampshire has another job to do. Surprisingly enough, Massachusetts wants him to look into the Mafia, and their recent activity. It's funny, the Mafia has been a problem for the longest time now, and no one has been able to find out which one of them has become the Representation for the American Mafia, or if they have, they're not talking. Everybody _knows_ that it's New York, of course, but no one can prove anything, so it's all moot. The whole thing is weird, really. New York is obviously the American Mafia, but he doesn't seemed changed at all by the crime in his heart city, something that by the example in Illinois proves to be highly impossible. Maybe New York is just a great actor?

Or else that's not it at all. The instructions in the folder say to look around _Atlantic_ City as opposed to New York City. Massachusetts would be the last person to vouch for New York, if the arguments they get into mean anything. So the hunch looks like it's just got to be on the level. But if it isn't New York who's been running the Mafia… Then who? New Hampshire has had a pretty good idea for a while, and even though the tip from Massachusetts to go to Atlantic City pretty much confirms it, New Hampshire still feels the need to look into this before doing anything rash. So, that means a lot of stakeouts, and lots of coffee to get through said stakeout.

Still, New Hampshire thinks it's just a little low for Massachusetts to have him be investigating New Jersey while she's grieving. Thomas Edison –New Jersey's wizard, the inventor, the man who lit up America, the eternal Capitalist– had died only a month ago, as if he couldn't stand to see what had happened to the world, to see what had come from rampant Capitalism. New Hampshire hadn't attended the funeral, though he did send a nice letter to New Jersey. Massachusetts must seriously dislike her as much as he appears to if would have New Hampshire investigate her while she's grieving. It takes a special kind of dislike to level such a thing at someone in pain. Oh well, it's not really New Hampshire's place to question things when he's getting paid, unless of course he's being paid to do the questioning. Which he is, but not about this. It's one of the little paradoxes of detective work that he happens to dislike, actually.

And on top of this new and highly intriguing job, at some point New Hampshire has to get ready for the Winter Olympics, because apparently the fact that New York has managed to get them all sick as dogs in the last couple of years doesn't mean that the show won't go on. Hell, the Empire State is even _hosting_. Idly, he wonders who let that pass, or if maybe that was one of those things that gets decided long before the event takes place. Still, New Hampshire won't be surprised at all if a visiting Nation tries to bean the Empire State over the head at some point during the games for his dumbassery. New Hampshire has been pretty tempted to do the same himself, lately. Maybe he'll take his own shot at the Olympics? That'd be nice, he could easily get the other State alone, since it's not like anyone cares about the dumbass. But in the mean time, New Hampshire smiles at the manila folder on his desk with relish; it's time to get back to business.

_Afternoon, February 15th, 1932_

Alaska holds his silver medal to his chest, smiling happily in the early afternoon as he watches the huskies play; free to roam for the most part now that they're no longer tethered to the dogsled. Alaska might be constantly ignored, but he did well this year, and he knows it. These new dogs, the ones he helped raise, they're going to make him famous. Manitoba's man might have won the race, but Alaska's musher was only a fraction of a second behind him. In the Territory's book, that's just almost as good as getting a first. Almost. Besides, Seppala has beaten St. Goddard before at the races Quebec holds, and that's worth something, as well. Alaska tries not to think about the fact that Seppala has lost more often than he's beaten Manitoba's champion. One of the things America has taught the Territory is how to have a selective memory.

New York is hosting the Winter Games this year, and has been predictably showing off for the entire world to see, despite being sick as, well, as a dog. Alaska still doesn't get that idiom, dogs are pretty healthy critters, and he should know. But despite the strange idiom, one of New York's people had beaten one of Norway's record at the Speed-Skating event, and the Empire State has been wearing his gold medal proudly ever since. The human winners of the events are given medals for their efforts, but the Nations and their kind are given copies of the medals their people win as well to be mementoes. In fact, New York has been showing off a lot, lately. He's built a skyscraper large enough to truly earn its name, now the tallest building in the world. None of them are on their way to recovery just yet, not even Alaska himself.

New York has managed to get the entire world sick, in short, and several people are very upset, Alaska too. Especially since New York got to host the games this year. Alaska has always wanted to host the Winter Games, and has never gotten his chance. Everyone has always told him that he's too small for it, which makes no sense to his mind, since Alaska is anything _but_ small, despite the fact that he's still a Territory, and like Russia used to tell him, still growing.

He dislikes being told he's too small for anything, but Alaska is starting to think that America is just selectively ignoring him. Or else, the committee is. They're all in cahoots, they have to be. Otherwise, they'd have picked him already. Nobody does winter sports in America's family better than Alaska. Except for New York. And maybe Maine. In any case, Alaska has Plans. He's going to be a State, one way or another. He's tired of being ignored the way that Puerto Rico, Hawaii, the Philippines, Guam and so many others have been. America has forgotten how to deal with territories that aren't continental, as if there's something different about them. Which he guesses there is, technically. But it's not fair, leaving them to fend for themselves, more or less.

Alaska doesn't much mind the fending for himself bit, since it's cool to be living on his own, with just the dogs. Alaska likes his dogs. But that isn't the point. Alaska doesn't like being ignored. Alaska is used to being alone, but not fending for himself. Russia had always cared about him, in his own strange, unfathomable way, and made sure that the boy could defend himself from just about anything. Russia was… Off, odd, different; something was wrong with Alaska's _отец_ that excused the man ignoring his charge occasionally, but the large Nation always made sure to check in on his _принятый сын_ every once and awhile, make sure that Alaska was well fed and healthy. What America does is completely different, and just plain wrong in Alaska's mind. America hadn't even bothered with Alaska until after his gold rush, when the too-large Territory was suddenly valuable, and before that he had openly referred to Alaska as his little mistake, or jokes with joke names like Walrussia. How did he think that a child would handle that?

Being taken from the only parent he'd ever had and then left on his own, Alaska didn't know what to do. So without knowing, he modified and adopted a tactic that Florida once used against England, only instead of refusing to learn English, since he didn't know how to stop himself from learning, he just chose not to speak. The boy took a vow of silence, and in some ways, that has almost hurt his case, since it means that Alaska has never been able to bond with America well, since the Nation is all bluster and bravado, and can't stand quiet pauses. Alaska has never broken his vow, not for anyone, even though he knows it's probably counterproductive.

He has made a friend though. The Northern Territory writes letters to Hawaii now in carefully formed handwriting, since he was never taught Latin characters and had to learn them from signs around his home, practicing his English without speaking, and making a friend with another ignored charge of America's. The girl comes from a place far away, and has never heard of snow, and practices a language that's alien to her as well. In a lot of her letter, Hawaii tries to teach Alaska phrases in her languages and the Northern Territory responds in kind with lessons on the Cyrillic alphabet. They are friends, even though they have never met, and Hawaii is the only person Alaska thinks he would tolerate speaking to, maybe.

Besides, even if the Territory _did_ say something, Alaska doesn't think he's ever spoken to America before, not verbally. The Nation would probably be distracted by the fact that Alaska was talking rather than listen to what the boy has to say. In any case, Alaska has found that America has bigger things on his mind right now, like Prohibition. Wisconsin has been pushing so hard for it to end lately, and Alaska isn't sure what will happen next, since he doesn't have the opportunity to attend any meetings held by the States. The Territory is physically too young to drink, as well, but he knows that the States are all definitely old enough, and have been arguing for years now about what to do about Prohibition. He remembers someone talking about Wisconsin, something about a plan that the Midwestern State has in mind, something he cooked up years ago that will end Prohibition. In the end, however, it's going to be America who will make the final choice, and there's nothing Alaska can do about it. It just simply isn't any of his business.

_Sunset, February 17th, 1933_

As the late winter sun sets, America walks slowly down the streets of Washington D.C. having left the White House minutes before, a grin stamped hard on his face. It's faltering, just a bit too much to be one of America's usual grins, but it's there nonetheless. The last thing America would let himself do is look unhappy, especially since Wisconsin just finished his final push to get Prohibition repealed, much to the anger of Vermont and Ohio. Well, yeah times are rough, but he'll get through, he always gets through, and hey, in few months, America will get a chance to go drinking above ground without having to look over his shoulder, hoping none of the States are around for some reason, feeling like a criminal, which is seriously not the way that the hero should ever have to feel. Things are going to be great. He's going to throw a party. Everyone will come, and it'll be awesome.

Oh, who the hell does America think he's trying to kid? Everything is going to hell in a hand basket these days, and he knows it, just like he knows there's nothing he can do about it at this point. His economy is in the shitter; New York is only just barely back on his feet; it turns out that New Jersey is the Representation of the American Mafia –which is something he really needs to talk to Romano about– and now that's going to be just another unpleasant family secret; his old boss is on his way to getting hated, and his boss-to-be almost got assassinated two days ago. America sneezes explosively as he walks down the street, shuddering a little as another group of people somewhere declare bankruptcy. Damn it. Whatever this Roosevelt guy is going to do about this situation, he'd better do it quick before America's whole economy collapses.

At this point, America just wants to be able to pin the blame on somebody, anybody, but he's been having some issues with that. It's not Hoover's fault, not really. The people are pinning it on him, but it's not his fault. Hoover just happened to be in office when things blew up in face, which is enough for some people to blame him for the economic collapse. They've been calling it the Great Depression, and so far America's been feeling pretty depressed. He feels like shit, his kids are getting sick left and right, and soon America's knows that if his unemployment rate keeps rising like this, he's _really_ going to get sick. He's just hoping that he doesn't give this recession to Lithuania, seeing as he's already given it to most of the world already. America's pretty sure now that France is going to kill him in his sleep now after the way that last meeting went. He'd be really scared, actually, if heroes were prone to such things.

Lithuania has been living at home with America for last couple years or so now, actually, having wanted to get away from Russia. America can't say that he blames him for wanting to crash on his couch; Russia is creepy, no doubt about it. Still, he guesses that the other Nation is his ally and he used to be his friend, so America really should just try to play nice and not shoot the commie the next time he shows up. America's mostly just mad at the other Nation because Russia is doing just fine while everybody else is scrambling to keep their economies from collapsing on them. Seriously, he thinks that Russia seems to be even _healthier_ now that everyone else is getting sick. What's up with that? It's so totally un-cool.

England's on his case now, to make things worse and that's really just the last thing America needs right now. England seriously needs to calm down, take the stick out of his ass and worry about his own damn problems first before trying to yell at America. If he's been trying to make America feel bad with all his ranting and raving, it's totally been working. Or else England has been trying to help? If that's it, yelling at America is totally the wrong way to go about doing it. Actually _helping_ him would be helping. And anyway England should be home now, helping his own people before worrying about America, because it's not like heroes like him need help anyway. America even _told_ him that and then England had gotten all weird and angry before storming out and mumbled something about stupid tossers not knowing when other people are trying to be nice. And now America has no idea what had happened and he even less of an idea of what a tosser is.

Due to his economic situation, America's been in and out of a local soup kitchen in the district lately, volunteering his time there whenever he can now. It just makes his heart hurt to see how many people have to come in to get their food, how many people have to use their food stamps just to survive day to day. This can't be the way things are supposed to work, but America just has no idea what to do. He'd been hoping to get advice from Louisiana, maybe she'd be able to just point at something and say; that's your problem right there, go to it? But instead she'd just shrugged her shoulders, shaken her head, and then had plainly told America that they were all fucked.

That was just great. He'd sort of been hoping that Louisiana would do some voodoo or something like that that would just fix everything. Then when he'd asked about that, Louisiana had looked at him like he was crazy, and then just lectured America about how voodoo is not supposed to be used for things like that because it will only backfire, and that it's a black art and yadda yadda blah blah. Jeez, Louisiana could have just told him that voodoo wasn't real. Dang, it's not even like America really _believes_ in it, so she could have just told him that the whole thing wasn't real instead of having to make up complicated and boring-sounding reasons for why she wasn't able to fix him. First England, then her- why does no one ever give America straight answers to anything? Do they _like_ making his head hurt more? It's just stupid.

In other news, Wisconsin finally finished his last push today to get Prohibition repealed with the Blaine Act. The State cleans up nice, it turns out. He's been campaigning for the last six years, actually, trying to get Prohibition repealed. Obviously, the Badger State has been successful. He'd somehow managed to turn a good deal of the States to his side, including even Ohio and Vermont, the two most vocal supporters of Prohibition. America's still not sure how the Badger State pulled it off in the end, but he has to admit that swinging Ohio and Vermont was a masterful feat of statesmanship, one he didn't know Wisconsin had in him. Still, it was a pleasant surprise to find out that Wisconsin actually has a real sharp political mind under his messy black mop of his.

The kid had campaigned long and hard, and now in a few months, they'll all get to have a nice drink, and most importantly, they'll be able to have it legally and aboveground, as opposed to furtively and underground. That's going to be great. Louisiana had announced that she was going to throw a party once the repeal took effect, grand and raucous, she had said, let the economy be damned. She might be a silly, magic-y girl, but America has to admit that France's adopted daughter certainly inherited her "father's" skills at putting together epic entertainment. She's got a flair for it that America is glad to say he probably also contributed to, even though he grudgingly admits that Louisiana usually is the reason why his Fourth of July parties come together with any sort of grace each year. The kid just has a flair for organization, something that sounds a little contradictory to America.

In any case, there's going to be a party. And hey, wait a minute –America pauses in his tracks as the though really hits him for the first time– the States just passed the repeal! It won't take effect yet, but it's still here, it still got done! Now all America has to do is be patient for a few more months and –America hacks up another wracking cough, and feels the onset of a major financial headache coming his way– never mind. Patience is totally not on his list. Instead, he's going to go get himself absolutely hammered.  
This year so far is shaping up to be pretty damn interesting, if by interesting you mean hideously turbulent. America quickly compiles a list of good and bad things that have happened to him this year so far. The good list: the Blaine Act, and that the Philippines is going to be independent. America's going to miss her, but the kid has been easily taking care of herself, and now she's going to get ten years to grow up the way most Nations never get the chance to. America wants to give the Philippines the chance to grow up as normally as any one of his kind can. She's going to get ten years to straighten her country out, but then the kid's going to be on her own. America thinks she can handle it. Hoover might not have, but America thinks that The Philippines will be just fine. She's a tough kid, and she's been yelling for her Independence for years now, so it's about time that she finally gets it. Jones Law. It makes America smile that they almost sort of named it after him.

On the bad list: somebody tried to shoot his boss-to-be the other day. No- just no. That's not even anywhere remotely close to being okay. All America can really bring himself to think other than a near-blinding anger is why? Why would someone want to do that? Another Roosevelt is going to be in office. This one's a Democrat, yeah, but the Teddy was really cool and this one's his cousin, so that's got to mean he'll be cool too, right? Or at least that's what it means the way New York goes on about "his" Roosevelts. But just thinking about Teddy makes America think of the time somebody actually did shoot him. He didn't die, yeah, but that was just because Teddy was a fucking badass and held himself together with the sheer force of his will. But somebody still _tried to shoot him._

Which just brings America back to an agonized _why?_ The last very last thing America needs is the instability that would come out of getting his President Elect assassinated right now. And he's tired of his bosses getting killed. Three times was enough, and America had been hoping that it would never happen again. It's never going to happen again on his watch, not ever if he can help it. This whole thing is getting out of hand. No more presidents are getting shot. It was bad enough to watch it happen to Abe. And then to Garfield. And McKinley. It's what the Secret Service is for, to stop there from being more Presidents like McKinley, shot after giving away his lucky carnation to a little girl.

It was so hard to watch McKinley seem to recover only to die painfully six days later of his injuries. America had stayed so close to him all throughout his "recovery," and the false hope had been the worst part. The idea that his boss was going to get better, that somebody was smiling on him. And even he'd been shot, McKinley had called for them not to hurt his assassin. It was just like giving the flower away to the girl; McKinley always thought of other people first, and then someone shot him. The names and faces of the dead swirl around in America's mind, reminding him of all the ones who died early.

Before he knows it, America is travelling backwards through his memories, to all the Presidents, all the ones who left him. And eventually he arrives inevitably at Washington. The closest America ever got to having a real father. Somehow, he feels like Washington would be disappointed in him for his lack of control, having only been able to do Prohibition for thirteen years. Heck, America only made it totally dry for maybe three years or so before he caved. Washington would be disappointed that America was reduced to hiding caches of alcohol all over the city the Nation named after him just so that he could sneak a drink after work without having to have to go to a speakeasy. And he'd only been able to keep up with that for a few more years before he'd given in again and just started going to the speakeasy he now regularly frequents.

America can feel the disappointment through the ages and can almost see Washington shaking his head slowly at him. It's not a nice feeling, like his stomach twisting into little angry knots. Or else that's just his economy. America sighs, and then keeps walking, his grin definitely having fallen off his face now. Maybe he should have gone over the good things last, not first. Regardless of how bad he feels now, America's year is going to be crazy interesting if what's been going on so far is any indication of how things are going to turn out later. He hopes that things will stay this exciting, just maybe not in such a bad way. Definitely not in such a bad way. No more shooting at Presidents.

Agh. Another headache hits him full force, pounding into his skull as another business or five collapses somewhere. America just needs a freaking drink. He walks as quickly as he feels able to towards the speakeasy, the sun setting to the west. The Prohibition Era is on its way out, and the Nation can feel a new one on its way in. Now that that business is on its way to being done, the future is certainly going to be interesting, all right.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** I really hope I managed to keep America somewhat in character…! Louisiana's section is the one I'm most proud of, since it progresses the most linearly out of all of them. She's also probably the shortest section, but clarity was more important for her section than for length, seeing as I had to springboard off of her. Mass's bit was the most annoying to write. Bluh, I dislike it. Too scattered.  
**Translation:** _Capo_: Pretty much means "captain." Highly associated with the Mafia.  
**Historical Notes:** Warning, there are quite a lot of them. I really tried to do my best with historical accuracy.  
[1] The Chalfonte Hotel: The Chalfonte is a real hotel in Atlantic City that was built in 1868. It was later renamed the Chalfonte-Haddon Hall Hotel, and then became a casino in the greatly scummy tradition of turning hotels into casinos that's ingrained in the Atlantic City Boardwalk.  
[2] Thomas Edison: The Wizard of Menlo Park. Died in 1931, he is most famously credited with inventing the lightbulb, though he is also responsible for many other things. One of the few reasons people from New Jersey have for any sort of State pride.  
[3] La Cosa Nostra: Another name for the Mafia, it translates literally to "our thing."  
[4] Joe Masseria: One of the first American Mafia dons, he was the head of what later became the Genovese Family. On August 9th, 1922, he was shot at twice at point-blank range. The bullets passed through his straw hat and Masseria lived, gaining the reputation as the "man who could dodge bullets." Died in 1931, assassinated as the one of the last skirmishes of the Castellammarese War, a power struggle between factions of the American Mafia.  
[5] Barnstormers: The first generation of stunt pilots. The barnstormers took wing all across America, doing death-defying stunts like playing tennis on the wings of a moving aircraft in front of a crowd.  
[6] Lucky Strikes: The cigarette of choice for the Prohibition Era.  
[7] Al Capone: Probably the most well known and notorious American mobster. Originally born in New York, the Italian-American moved to Chicago and took over the city with his own crime wave. Was sent to jail on tax evasion charges in 1931, and eventually wound up in Alcatraz.  
[8] Omertà: The code of silence used by all styles of Mafia, be it Mob, American, or Sicilian. It states that one should never talk to the police, or other forms of law enforcement. It also says that one should never betray your attacker, even if you are dying. For example, during the St. Valentine's Day Massacre, one of the injured mobsters insisted that he had never been shot all the way up until he died. A good definition is thus: Whoever appeals to the law against his fellow man is either a fool or a coward. Whoever cannot take care of himself without police protection is both. It is as cowardly to betray an offender to justice, even though his offences be against yourself, as it is not to avenge an injury by violence. It is dastardly and contemptible in a wounded man to betray the name of his assailant, because if he recovers, he must naturally expect to take vengeance himself. Breaking omertà is punishable by death.  
[9] Shirts!: Dress code was kinda funky back in the Roaring Twenties. Knee length dresses were scandalous, so a girl wearing a shirt would have given most people a brain hemorrhage.  
[10] Jennison and John Heaton: A pair of brothers from Connecticut who won three of America's six medals in the 1928 Winter Olympic Games. Jennison, the older brother won the gold in the skeleton event and took silver as part of the five-man bobsleigh race. John, the younger brother won silver in the skeleton event below his brother.  
[11] The St. Francis Dam: Built in between 1924 and 1926, it collapsed in 1928, flooding the San Francisquito Canyon. The death toll is to this day unknown as bodies continued to wash up out of the Pacific until around the 1950s, but it is estimated that something around 500 Californians died in the tragedy. The failure of the dam is widely regarded as the single greatest failure of engineering in American history, and California's second worst disaster, coming in just below the 1906 earthquake and fire in San Francisco.  
[12] The Pineapple Primary: A primary held in Chicago for the Republican party, over 60 bombs were thrown during the proceedings as part of the symptoms of criminal tensions.  
[13] Amelia Earhart: One of the most well-known American aviators. Earhart was the first woman to cross the Atlantic by plane, both as a passenger, and was then the first woman to cross the Atlantic by plane flying solo. She later tried to circumnavigate the globe by plane, but disappeared over the Pacific Ocean and was never found. Her disappearance cemented her fame, as now most people speculate whether her plane was downed by natural causes, or if she was abducted by aliens.  
[14] The Jazz Singer: The first feature-length sound film.  
[15] Steamboat Willie: The first sound animation, it was released on November 18th, 1928. Celebrated by the Walt Disney Corporation as the birthday of Mickey Mouse.  
[16] Small payments: Back in the Roaring Twenties, people payed for a lot of things in "small, easy payments." Ever heard that phrase on infomercials? Well, this was before people were jaded to the idea. Now, no one to my knowledge ever used that method of payment on their clothes, unless it was a tux, but then again, I was trying to do some extremes, and this is New York we're talking about here.  
[16] Black Tuesday: The day the Stock Market Crashed. It signaled the beginning of the Great Depression, and on the day the Stock Exchange crashed, there was rioting and unrest on Wall Street as the banks began to collapse.  
[18] The New Negro Movement: Another name for the Harlem Renaissance, the cultural movement that took place in Harlem, New York, New York during the Prohibition Era and continued into the Depression. Characterized by poetry, Jazz music, amazing literature and the explosion of African-American culture on the national stage.  
[19] Castellammarese War: A Mafia war that took place between 1929 and 1931. It was pretty much over who was going to be in charge of the Mafia, and to dispose of Joe Masseria, the guy from earlier. Masseria was taken out at the end of the war to make a long story short, and the guy in charge of the faction that killed him named himself as _capo di tutti capi_- then promptly got shot himself. After that, the current organization with the Five Families of New York was set up.  
[20] The Bureau of Prohibition: First established in 1920, it was an American federal agency established to enforce the ban on Prohibition.  
[21] Emile St. Goddard: A Canadian dog musher and breeder from Manitoba. Most famous for racing and beating Leonard Seppala in the 1932 Lake Placid Winter Olympics, with whom he had a rivalry in the world of sled dog racing. The only dogsled racer to ever enter Canada's Hall of Fame.  
[22] Leonard Seppala: Emigrated to Alaska from Norway in 1900 as part of the Nome gold rush. Later inherited a group of huskies that would later become part of the Siberian Husky breed of dogs. A professional sled dog racer, he was often beaten by Emile St. Goddard, above.  
[23] Walrussia: A joke name offered for Alaska after Seward bought the Territory from Russia. The purchase was openly mocked as a bad decision and taunted with the title of "Seward's Folly" and more joke names like Polaria. However, the complaining mostly dropped after the Nome gold rush, when it turned out that Alaska had hidden stores of wealth.  
[24] The Blaine Act: Proposed by Wisconsin Senator John J. Blaine, it passed on February 17th, 1933 and repealed the 18th Amendment or the Vosltead Act which enacted Prohibition and brought in the 21st, which killed it.  
[25] Hare-Hawes-Cutting Act: Promised the Philippines freedom after ten years Passed in originally in 1932. Vetoed by President Herbert Hoover, Congress overruled him, and the Act was passed once again in 1933, overruling the veto. It was then rejected by the Philippine Senate as they felt it wasn't good enough for a number of different reasons. Another Act called the Tydings-McDuffie Act was drafted that was more agreeable to the Philippines and that act was passed in 1934.  
[26] Jones Law: An act that was set to afford more autonomy to the Philippines in provision for their eventual independence. The first official promise from the USA that they would grant the Philippines independence. Later reinforced on the Philippines's side with the Declaration of Purposes, which cemented the agreement for eventual independence.  
[27] The Roosevelts: FDR was Theodore's fifth cousin, and married his niece Eleanor. They were both varying shades of awesome, Teddy in Liberal Republican red and FDR in a nice cool shade of four-term Democrat blue. They hailed from New York, and are one of the Founding Families of that State.  
[28] Teddy Roosevelt being a badass: There are way too many examples of this to list adequately, so I'm going to focus on the one brought up in the story. President Roosevelt was set to give a speech and then was shot. He would have died had he not had his glasses case with the folded glasses inside and the folded copy of his speech in his breast pocket, which slowed the bullet. Because he wasn't coughing up blood, he announced to the crowd that he had been shot, "but that it takes more than that to kill a bull moose" and went on to give the hour and a half long speech. Then he let his very worried aides rush him to the hospital. America must have been going insane with worry through the whole speech.


End file.
